


Sucker's Bet

by yellow_caballero



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (does backflip) battle of the sexes romcoms don't make any sense, (hits blunt) hey aren't bet based 90s romcoms kind of fucked up, (shreds on skateboard) our society's obsession with sex is damaging, Annabelle is Vriskakin, Annabelle's an egirl and Jon's a himbo, Asexuality, Body insecurity, Gen, Internalized Acephobia, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has ADHD, M/M, Men are from Mars Avatars are from Venus, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Comedy Deconstruction, lowkey also a Leverage AU but don't worry about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 61,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29180481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellow_caballero/pseuds/yellow_caballero
Summary: 27M seeking The Perfect Man: must be passionate, rich, attractive, charismatic, honest, and ready to love.Jonathan Sims, Avatar of the Web, is the perfect man. He likes Martin, and Martin likes him back. He probably doesn't even have egg sacs. What's the problem?Well, there's Jon's vain and ditzy personality. There's his overprotective family and meddling sister. And there's the small matter of a two way bet between them: that Jon can't make a man into a monster, and that Martin can't make a monster into a man, in ten days.There's no way this can go wrong. Maybe there's no way this can go right. And if Jonathan Sims knows, why isn't he telling?
Relationships: Annabelle Cane & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay & Agnes Montague & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 210
Kudos: 265
Collections: Repulsed/Averse Ace Jon Archivist





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo boy here we go. This story is the product of too many bad romcoms to name, a last-minute joke made while writing EvilCon that spiraled out of control, and my many many feelings about asexuality as portrayed in media, fanfic, culture, and ourselves. Let's queer and ace-ify bad 90s/00s romcoms, everybody. 
> 
> This is a complicated warning to give, but as a heads-up: a major plot point of this story is a sex-repulsed person pursuing sex. It's not strictly coerced, but it's not NOT coerced. He's not pressured, but he's not NOT pressured. It's complex, but it's definitely uncomfortable and potentially triggering, so that's a heads up.
> 
> This story...TECHNICALLY takes place within the same continuity as portrayed in the epilogue of 'The Monster at the End of this Book'. Rest assured, if you haven't read that story you'll be just as confused as those who have. No need to read it at all. There's also side stories in this continuity that give background found on my tumblr, but those aren't necessary to read either. 
> 
> Serious thanks to my beta LazuliQuetzal and the queen of grammar bobafett.

**Jon**

It was a perfect day for his wife’s funeral. 

Jon had great experience with funerals. He had been attending them since he was a child, and had the experience down to an art. Attending the funeral of a spouse was always the trickiest game, but after long practice Jon could practically attend one in his sleep. If the spouse was a woman, stay stoic the entire time but let one teardrop fall near the end in full view of everyone. If they were a man, then crowds tended to expect more open grief. Let yourself cry into the arms of a brother, that always worked. 

Today’s funeral was especially nice because it was a bright, sunny day: not too warm, but not uncomfortably cold. Most importantly, it wasn’t raining, so nothing ruined the perfect hairstyle that he had spent an hour on this morning. Jon was extremely proud of his hair, and he spent the entire mournful service and sermon worrying that the wind was blowing it out of place. Jon hated it when it rained during funerals. It always ran all of the gel out of his hair, and then he had to spend three hours getting it just right again on shampoo night. What a pain. 

Finally, the service wrapped up, and Jon bore the well-wishers and sympathetic hand clasps. Stay strong, you’re very brave, she’s with the angels now, what a pity, she was only seventy, you’re a young man and you’ll recover eventually, I’m sure you’ll take great care of her charities, etc, etc, blah, blah, blah. 

It was another fifteen minutes until Jon whispered his excuses to his now ex-sister in law about not attending the wake—he simply couldn’t bear it anymore, truly, this was all just too much. In full view of her family, he let himself shed that single tear. For the final,elegant touch, he let himself lay a hand on her headstone, just once. She’s with the angels now. Hearts melted. Birds ceased their melodies. Cherubs wept. 

He descended the hill, a lone figure in a well-cut black suit that showed off his lean torso, and took his leave of the family and mourners of Catherine Elizabeth Chesterton-Powell. There was a long black car idling in the driveway, and Jon carefully opened the door and slid in. 

“Good god, that was tedious. How much did we get out of that one?”

“Fifteen million pounds,” Gerry said from the passenger seat. He was flipping through a small tablet, browsing through a list of stock options and holdings and whatever-the-such. “Including controlling shares in Hageman Inc. I’m selling them off to employees now. The corporation will be employee-owned in weeks, and it’ll pull out of its interventionist lobbying in the Middle East in a matter of months.”

“Wonderful.” Jon groaned, cracking his neck. Looking sadly down at the coffin of your dead wife put such a crick in the neck. “Who’s next? I think an MP just divorced her husband, and she’s looking for a rebound.”

Beside him, Annabelle was leafing through her own tablet - the society pages this time - and Jon was mildly surprised to see her. She was dressed in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, as if Agnes had dragged her out of bed. Which was likely what had happened. Her lips were pursing as she relentlessly perused the  _ Sun _ , analyzing it for weaknesses. 

“I have another Tory MP who’s posting a lot of requests on FetLife for a boyfriend. Low effort, great blackmail. He’s going to be the deciding vote in a labor regulation law soon. Ooh, here’s a gay South African diamond miner who just got diagnosed with cancer—”

“Annabelle,” Agnes said sternly from the driver’s seat, and Annabelle guiltily stopped talking. She drove the car down the winding country road, dotted with nothing else but shrubbery and rolling greens, and Jon let himself exhale and settle against the door. Lord, was he tired. That woman had taken  _ way  _ too long to die. “Jon, we need to talk.”

Uh oh. Jon tried to exchange a frightened glance with Annabelle, but she just pursed her lips. If Jon craned his head to look in the mirror, he could see Gerry scrolling through his tablet with his own identical ‘not going to touch this’ expression. There was help from no quarter here. Agnes was using her ‘mom friend’ voice, and nobody was immune. 

“If you have complaints about my performance, I’d like to see you play grieving spouse next time,” Jon said, slightly miffed. “I can burn down the buildings from now on if you like.”

“You know that’s not it,” Agnes scolded gently, and Jon shut up. Agnes turned onto a highway, and Jon found himself sinking back against the seat. “Jon, you’ve been working yourself too hard. Ever since that job at the Magnus Institute—” Jon winced. “—you’ve just been throwing yourself from one con to another. It can’t be good for you.”

“Agnes, you know I can’t afford to grow complacent,” Jon complained. “If I lose my status as Eldest then  _ Annabelle  _ will be in charge—”

“I’d make a better Eldest than you,” Annabelle sniped. “Give the rest of us a chance.”

“You were Eldest for five months in 2013, and the economy never recovered,” Jon shot back. “Mother keeps me as Eldest for  _ public safety _ .”

“You’re such a Mummy’s boy.”

“You’re second best—”

“Kids, do not make me turn this car around,” Agnes said, and both Jon and Annabelle shut up as Gerry snickered. “Jon, your position is perfectly safe. But in the last three months you’ve run five different cons, stolen millions of pounds, ruined at least three lives, and influenced a piece of major legislation. I know you’re not happy with how the Magnus Institute con played out—”

“It went  _ fine  _ and I’m not upset about it  _ whatsoever _ —”

“You’re a great liar to everybody who is  _ not  _ in this car,” Gerry said flatly. 

“—but that’s no excuse to overwork yourself. We’ve all talked about it—”

“Agnes said it’s what we’re doing, and we went along with it,” Annabelle droned, bored. 

“—and we’ve decided that you’re taking a vacation.”

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it. 

Finally, he weakly said, “From black widowing elderly and corrupt rich Britons?”

“No, from cons,” Agnes said severely, as the countryside whistled past them. Jon gaped, fighting the urge to sputter. “No embezzlement. No scams. No heists. The absolute most that you’re going to do is to help Annabelle plan the party.  _ After  _ the party, then we’ll talk again about running another job.” She glanced at him in the rearview mirror, yellow eyes softening. “Please just take it easy for a bit? For me?”

Jon could not believe this was happening to him. “But Annabelle’s party is in two weeks.”

“Oh, yes, Annabelle, I’d  _ love  _ to help you with the party,” Annabelle said, in a breathy falsetto that did  _ not  _ sound like Jon. “I’d never leave all of the domestic labor to my little sister who single-handedly keeps this family together, no siree, I love getting my head out of my vain little ass and actually being useful.”

“Only you would make two weeks of break sound like a death sentence,” Agnes scolded lightly. She cursed under her breath at another driver, flipping her turn signal and drifting towards an exit lane. Agnes was a wonderful driver—seventy years of practice with vision that never deteriorated would do that to you. “My decision’s final. I’m cutting you off. Take a break from being an Avatar of the Web for two weeks and just be Jon, okay? I’m doing this because I care about you.”

“I’m doing it because it’s funny,” Gerry volunteered. “I bet ten quid that you’ll be climbing the walls in a week.”

“I bet two days,” Ananbelle said. 

But Jon was no longer paying attention to any of them. He was, instead, thinking of the one person who he had spent the last three months trying desperately to forget. The one relationship whose messy end had catapulted him into two weeks of bouncing from con to con, running away from thoughts he never wanted and dreams he never thought he would have. 

But this was an opportunity, wasn’t it? A notion, percolating in Jon’s brain for months, slowly flowered into a rich idea. That was it. This was the perfect way to keep Agnes happy  _ and  _ run his cons for the next two weeks. She couldn’t complain when he was indulging in a hobby, could she? This was extra-curricular. It was practical, clearing up a loose end and securing Jon’s 100% clear rate as an irresistible heartthrob. It was for  _ Jon _ and his self-edification. 

Jon thumped his palm with a fist, lighting up with the thrill of a new idea. The other inhabitants of the car, with long decades of experience with Jon’s ideas, leaned away from him in abject terror. “I’m going to seduce Martin Blackwood!”

“This is why Mother doesn’t love you,” Annabelle said flatly, as both Agnes and Gerry groaned, and their black car sped its inextricable way towards London. 

  
  
  


The Magnus Institute Job was perhaps Jon’s greatest success and his greatest failure. 

Objectively, it was a master work. Going undercover and infiltrating businesses, families, and marriages was so easy it was sometimes boring. Give Jon five minutes to Google somebody, and he could fashion himself into their wildest dreams. Jon could impersonate a brother, an enemy, an investor, a boss, an employee, a sex addict, or a monk. 

Jon’s Mother had given him great gifts, beyond the imagining of mortal men. The world danced on his puppet strings, and he could make anyone fall in love with him after a smile. Annabelle was a master planner and plotter, but Jon was a manipulator. He could manipulate and control anybody. All Mother had asked for in return was himself. 

To a fifteen-year-old orphan, that had sounded like a very good deal indeed. One self in return for a thousand, a million different personas and selves: it was practically a steal.

But infiltrating the temple of the Eye? The stronghold of the Beholding, Jonah Magnus’s center of power? Worming his way in as Jonah’s young, bright eyed, and easily manipulated Archivist, with the sole intention of preventing Jonah’s self-indulgent apocalypse and feeding Jonah Magnus himself to his Mother? It was the kind of move only an Eldest Child of the Mother of Puppets could pull off. 

Jonan Magnus had fancied himself a master manipulator, but Annabelle and Jon combined were better. It helped that he hadn’t expected any moves from the Web, since apparently they had been allies for quite a while. Jon didn’t care. He had cannibalized the former Eldest child twelve years ago; he didn’t care about any silly old deals or bargains made for a piece of the post-apocalyptic pie. For someone who fancied himself a puppet master, Jonah had reacted very well to somebody who had presented him with everything that he wanted: a pre-marked puppet, isolated and intelligent and insecure and curious and completely alone. 

There were unique difficulties, of course, what with the fact that his mark was a mind reader. Jon had been forced to use his birth name, which he hadn’t used in almost fifteen years and felt kind of strange on his tongue. Deep cover was always annoying, especially when it skimmed too close to the truth.

But it was worth it. Agnes had killed the man who killed her lover. Gerry had killed the man who was ultimately responsible for the death of his father. Annabelle had averted the apocalypse, highlighting her oft-denied philanthropic streak. And Jon had secured his position as the world’s greatest grifter. 

The only downside was Martin. 

“I just don’t understand! Was it something I said?”

Jon draped a silky maroon dress shirt over his torso, posing with it for Annabelle’s judgement. She didn’t look at him from where she was lying across his bed, flipping through glossy magazines. Thick stacks of  _ Vogue  _ slid on top of messy piles of the  _ Guardian _ , the  _ Times _ , and the  _ New York Times _ . 

“Maybe it was the fact that the Jonathan Sims he knew and fell for over the course of six months was a complete fabrication from a manipulative airhead so he could murder his boss?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything. Do you think he’d like this shirt?”

“It’s hideous. You need flannel.Try the olive one, Blackwood likes earthy tones.”

“You didn’t even look! And flannel gives me hives. What am I, a factory worker?”

But he pulled out the olive green and navy blue flannel, because Annabelle was usually right about these things. 

It was a small miracle that he had managed to drag Annabelle out of her room long enough to help him with this miniature fashion show, but if there was one thing that could reliably grab Annabelle’s attention, it was gossip, plotting, and fashion. Jon’s walk-in closet was stuffed with every outfit of every style imaginable for every grift necessary, but he could already tell that Project: Martin Blackwood was going to take a more nuanced eye. Picking out the right outfit for a project usually took teamwork, three hours, and at least four felonies. Agnes and Gerry, who both owned about five outfits each, thought they were insane, but the real insanity was Gerry’s dye job. 

“Look,” Annabelle said flatly, reluctantly dragging her eyes away from her magazine. She had eagerly shucked her oppressive shirt and returned to her comfy, stylish sports bra and sweatpants, her snow-white braids tossed over one shoulder and trailing on the paper. “I don’t understand this. There’s no benefit to seducing Blackwood. He has no capital, business holdings, or social leverage. He is a painfully ordinary, unremarkable man with two speeding tickets and no degree. I get that you thought it would be funny to make him get a crush on you while you were undercover as the Archivist. I also understand that he’s been ignoring all of your calls and texts in the last three months because he probably feels a  _ wee  _ bit betrayed by the revelation that you’re a spider person. I simply do not understand why you care.”

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it. He did not know how to explain that he hadn’t purposefully seduced Martin during his stint undercover. Annabelle would unhinge her jaw and consume him alive if he indicated that his job hadn’t been perfectly conducted the entire time.

Yet again left without words, a rationale, or even a reasonable explanation for how he felt. Finally, he offered, “I just want to seduce him...for fun…” At Annabelle’s unimpressed look, he added hopefully, “As a challenge?” Still nothing. Jon crumpled. “I genuinely like him.”

Annabelle’s gaze sharpened into incredulity. “You  _ actually  _ like him.”

Jon nodded miserably. 

“Do I even want to know why?” Annabelle asked. 

Jon shrugged. “He’s all…” He waved his hands helplessly, still clutching the flannel shirt. “Kind? Authentic? Sincere? Well-meaning? Everything I’m not, basically.” He looked down at the shirt. “Do you think this would go with the Burberry coat?”

“No, it needs the Levi brown leather belt, show that you’re down to earth.” But Annabelle was frowning, and she actually flipped the magazine shut. In a remarkable display of her full attention, she sat up and turned around until she was sitting on the edge of the bed, kicking her soles against the edge of his mattress. “This is a terrible idea. Never give a boy your heart, Jon. He’ll break it every time. You didn’t get this far by being  _ careless _ .”

“My darling little sister should have more faith in me,” Jon said aggressively, unbuttoning his funeral chic white dress shirt and throwing the flannel on top over it. He stepped out of the walk-in closet and scrutinized himself in the floor-length mirror in front of it, smiling faintly as he looked at himself. Tight jeans, silky and high volume hair, perfect skin—pity about the flannel, but Jon could pull it off. “I want Martin Blackwood. I’m going to have him. My identity is already compromised, so he’s going to be a tough sell, but I’ll hook him. I can hook anybody.” He met Annabelle’s eyes in the mirror, a large and somber grey that perfectly matched his own. “Give me your help. We’re a team.”

Annabelle’s lips thinned. “Mother disapproves of real relationships.”

Tell him about it. It had taken significant bargaining to gain permission for him and Annabelle to keep living with Agnes and Gerry. “Your party might get her into a good mood.”

“Blackwood already knows your true identity, and he’s been refusing to talk to you.”

“I’m not a man who’s easily ignored,” Jon said. “I’ll pull out all the stops.” He paused a microsecond, barely recognizable, clearly blaring alarm bells to Annabelle. It was time to pull out the trump card. “I’ll even sleep with him. He won’t be able to resist me, then.”

Almost imperceptibly—yet obvious to Jon—Annabelle’s eyes widened. Jon  _ never  _ slept with them. Ever. It was downright impressive. “This is really important to you.”

Jon pressed his lips together, instead primping himself in the mirror. Perfectly sculpted, perfectly made. Jon’s greatest tool, his finest work of art. Tall, lean, perfect and beautiful— 

Martin had been  _ ignoring his calls— _

Was it really as simple as that?

But Annabelle sighed loudly, and Jon knew that he had won. “Fine! Maybe a boyfriend will distract you and make you slip down the rankings. We’ll cook something up. This human stands no chance against us.” In the mirror, the light reflected her eyes strangely, just for a second, making them seem black and shimmering, bending her limbs in a strange distortion. “The grand annual party is in ten days. That’s enough time to make a human fall in love with you. We’ll present him to Mother, and if she approves, you can keep him. If she doesn’t…”

“...she’ll eat him,” Jon finished. He smiled at himself in the mirror. Perfect, pearly white teeth. “No harm done. If I can’t hook him in ten days, he probably isn’t all that great anyway. We’re going to spin such a beautiful web, Annabelle.”

The reflection of the perfect tool in the mirror shimmered, and in a brief mirage of light Jon saw his big grey eyes flash beetle-black, identical to his sister’s. 

Hm. Would a cow leather or a sheepskin belt make his web sparkle the best? Or should he forego the belt? 

So many choices. So little time. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Martin**

It was a terrible day for Elias Bouchard’s funeral.

It was hideously bright and cheerfully sunny, a perfect temperature with a cool breeze blowing. Martin, quite frankly, thought it was inappropriate. Funerals should be all grey and smoggy and gross. There should be rain at least. Martin was a poet, and he knew what made good storytelling. Real life tended to have terrible narrative sense, honestly. He should complain to the author.

If there was one thing narratively satisfying about Elias Bouchard’s funeral, it was the fact that it was almost completely empty. 

Martin stood next to a pensive Sasha and an expressionless Tim, feeling awkward and out of place in his cheap suit. Rosie stood slightly further down from them, looking inordinately cheerful. Martin kind of had the sense she was here to make sure that he was really dead. There was one other person Martin didn’t recognize, a Captain Haddock-looking guy with a big hat and a dramatic coat. He looked somewhat satisfied, which was another inappropriate expression for a funeral. Was anyone here even  _ sad _ ? 

It was like a sick parody of a funeral. Elias had never made a will or funeral arrangements, which made a lot of sense when you remembered that he was immortal, and it really wasn’t anything more than a priest saying a few words and a lowering of a casket. It was over so quickly it was kind of anticlimactic. 

No family, no friends, no coworkers, no colleagues. Just Martin, Sasha, Tim, Rosie, and Captain Haddock over there. Nobody was even sad. It was a little pathetic. 

Martin was a gentle soul, and he liked to consider himself empathetic and kind. Even though he wasn’t either of those things in reality, he could fake them well enough. When the priest wrapped up the ceremony and quickly hobbled off somewhere to go preside over another death, and Rosie and Captain Haddock quickly dispersed, Martin gave himself a few quiet seconds to close his eyes and struggle to think something kind about his deceased, genocidal, murderous, evil ex-boss. 

“Welp, that was fun!” Tim said, clapping his hands. “Who’s down for drinks?”

“Oh, god, me,” Sasha said. “If I have to look at a non-haunted casket for one more second I’m going to vomit. They’re so dull.”

“Yeah, count me in,” Martin said, giving up on Christian charity. It was overrated, anyway. 

  
  
  


Martin didn’t know why he was still hanging out with his coworkers. 

It wasn’t like they still worked together. Ever since that terrifying Agnes Montague woman had set fire to the Institute, there wasn’t really a place to work. Sasha and Tim were best friends slash love interests slash whatever, so it made sense that they still hung out, but there was no reason to involve Martin in all of that. He could only assume that it was some kind of trauma bonding thing. 

The under- and over-qualified research assistants that work together under the undercover spider demon in service to an infernal fear god before discovering that their boss is an immortal body hopping Regency apocalypse wannabe who killed their old manager and apparently girlfriend of scary pyromaniac woman; at which point they all scream uselessly as a vigilante group of supernatural psychopaths sets fire to an elaborate underground network of tunnels and destroys a two hundred year old panopticon to prevent the apocalypse… stay together… probably…

It wasn’t like there was precedent for this. So Martin got drinks with Tim and Sasha. He didn’t have anything better to do, being unemployed and everything.  _ Again _ . 

He couldn’t decide if next time he wasn’t lying on his CV, or if he was going to lie even harder. 

Still, even if Martin hadn’t really felt as if they were true friends at work, over the last three months they had weirdly all become a little closer. As Tim hunted for publishing jobs, Sasha interviewed for Archive jobs before finally landing one at the London Metropolitan Archives, and Martin...reconsidered his life, they somehow found themselves drifting closer together. Most of the time that meant wasting hours texting each other on the group chat, sometimes it was meeting up at each other’s flats for a movie night before devolving into drunken venting about whatever those Entity things were, and Friday nights it was just grabbing a pint at a pub. Martin enjoyed the domesticity and routine of it. 

Routine, except for when they were coming off a funeral. They piled into Tim’s car silently and weakly chatted about the most inconsequential things possible on their way back into London. 

And Martin, despite himself, scrolled through old text messages on his phone. 

**Martin:** I’m so sorry but I’m running late to work again, the Underground was stopped. I’ll be there as soon as possible!!

**EVIL SPIDER PERSON DNI:** That’s fine. Please do not make a habit of it. 

**Martin:** Yes I promise!!

Scroll, scroll. 

**Martin:** The follow-up on the Hawthorne statement didn’t turn up anything. im heading back I’ll be at the office in 10.

**EVIL SPIDER PERSON DNI:** Alright. Please mind your grammar, this is an office. 

(“It’s literally a phone, oh my god,” Tim had said, chewing a sandwich. “What a prick.”

“He’s just really awkward, Tim!”)

**EVIL SPIDER PERSON DNI:** On your way back to the office, can you please pick up the cake for Sasha’s birthday? Invoice me and I’ll make sure the office reimburses you.

**Martin:** No problem!

Scroll. Scroll. 

**EVIL SPIDER PERSON DNI:** martinnnnn pick up ur phone i said i was sorry :( like five times what do you want from me

**EVIL SPIDER PERSON DNI:** can we talk? Drinks or something? Ill pay im actually pretty rich secretly i just never mentioned lol

**EVIL SPIDER PERSON DNI:** gerry says sorry for stealing most of the institute library b4 agnes set it on fire but i don’t think he’s that sorry actually

**EVIL SPIDER PERSON DNI:** ur milks expired so make sure to throw it out! :)

**EVIL SPIDER PERSON DNI:** I was not in your flat! The spiders told me. :)

**EVIL SPIDER PERSON DNI:** hm I dont think im good at this actually

Martin should block him. He would. Soon. He would. 

The last text had been a week ago, and it had been mostly radio silent since then. Martin wasn’t sure if this was the best case scenario or a worrying sign that ‘EVIL SPIDER PERSON DNI’ had found a new tactic. It probably seemed too much to hope for that he had found a more entertaining victim than Martin. 

Martin had decided that the best way to deal with him was to treat him like an actual unidentified yet menacing spider: remain cautious in case it’s poisonous, no matter how cute it is, and try to get it outside of your house as soon as possible. And, if it is poisonous, remember that it’s most dangerous when you don’t know where it is. 

Martin had no idea where Jonathan Sims was. And he did  _ not  _ want to know.

“So is it just me, or do you guys feel kind of guilty?”

Martin startled, looking at Tim. They had made it to the pub ten minutes ago, and Martin realized somewhat belatedly that he had been absorbed in his thoughts the entire time. He didn’t seem to be the only one: Tim and Sasha were sitting next to each other in the small corner booth that they had snapped up, not even bothering to look at the menu. Tim was leaning forward with his elbow on the table and his chin propped in his hand, looking unfocused into the distance. Sasha was frowning at him, but Martin didn’t see her disagreeing. 

“What do you mean?” Martin asked. 

Tim shrugged, mouth tightening just a little. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad that the old bugger’s dead. Shit boss, wanted to cause the apocalypse. All bad here. But… like, I feel secondhand responsible for that guy’s death, and we just went to his funeral as if we had nothing to do with it. Since when did our lives get so weird?”

“We couldn’t have done anything, Tim,” Sasha said rotely, as if she had said it a thousand times before. She probably had, if only just to herself. “We can’t exactly blame ourselves for not immediately guessing that we were working at a grist mill for trauma.”

“It was pretty obvious in retrospect,” Martin pointed out. 

“You know what they say about hindsight,” Sasha joked weakly, eliciting a grimace from all three of them. Eye puns have been a strict no-go lately. “But seriously. I’ve gone through so many of the Statements that we rescued from the fire. It was this whole conspiracy and cover-up. We can’t kick ourselves for falling for it. We’re lucky we even survived.”

“What did we fall for, Sasha?” Tim asked, tired, and an awkward silence settled over them. 

They knew what he was talking about, or who he was talking about. They tried very hard not to talk about him, and yet somehow the conversation always ended up circling around the topic like water in a drain. Normally at this point Martin would butt in and gently redirect the conversation, or Tim would distract Sasha with a joke, or Sasha would distract Tim with a juicy bit of trivia or data about the Entities she had been doing research on, but today…

“I just don’t get it!” Tim burst out, and neither Sasha nor Martin stopped him. “There was  _ nothing _ ! No hint, no sign, no clue! I’ve gone over every fucking second a million times, and there was  _ no way  _ I could have guessed! He was my friend, and I…”

“How do you think I feel,” Sasha said dully. The waiter drifted by, and Sasha lifted a hand and held up three fingers. “I have an eidetic memory, access to dozens of dubiously legal government databases, and a finely honed sense of Artifact Storage survivalism and paranoia, and even I didn’t notice anything. If I couldn’t, of course you two couldn’t.”

“Thanks,” Martin said flatly. 

“Sorry, was that rude?” Sasha asked, distracted and slightly uncaring. “Didn’t mean to say it like that. But you know what I mean. Jonathan Sims  _ existed _ in every possible way. I have his third grade report card. He just…”

“Didn’t exist,” Martin said dully. “At all.”

Everybody sat in silent, resentful memory. 

“Is it stupid that I kind of want to talk to him again?” Tim said dully. “Even if it’s just to punch him in the face? I need answers. Dude ghosted us so bad it’s like he died.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Sasha asked rhetorically. “We were just pawns in whatever game the great primordial forces of Evil and Eviler were playing.” She slumped against her vinyl seat, depressed by her cosmic insignificance. “Like angels dancing on the head of a pin.”

“Uh,” Martin said, abruptly breaking out into a sweat. “He’s been, uh, thirst texting me. A lot. Actually.”

Both Tim and Sasha stared at Martin. The waiter slid their pints on the table, and they ignored their drinks in favor of staring at Martin.

He started sweating harder. 

“Mate,” Tim said, “what the fuck.”

Embarrassed, Martin withdrew his phone, unlocked it, and put it on the table. He let Tim and Sasha crane their heads to look: at least ten missed calls throughout the course of three months, and even more text messages. Some of them normal, some of them  _ very  _ weird, and some of them… difficult to interpret, considering Martin’s objective attractiveness level. 

“You know,” Sasha said slowly, “I had kind of thought that there was something going on between the two of you, but once we found out that it was all an elaborate lie I figured… sorry, that it was  _ also  _ a lie?”

Martin shrugged helplessly. 

Tim, at least, seemed to know what was going on. He had clenched his jaw, a muscle jumping out. “What a fucking creep,” he said under his breath, and Martin gently tugged his phone away from his grip. “He’s still playing you. He never stopped. Guess you were put down as an easy mark, Martin.”

Martin flushed, already embarrassed and uncomfortable, now feeling even worse. “I haven’t texted him back…”

“Good on you for the boundaries!” Sasha encouraged, as if he was a dog. “You need to work on those. You’re always letting people walk all over you.”

“Yeah, mate, you gotta stand up for yourself.” Tim squinted at the phone, still looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Especially against creeps like this. What does he still  _ want  _ from you?”

“Maybe he thinks another evil Entity’s going to poach Martin?” Sasha wondered, rubbing her chin slightly in thought. “I know those Avatars feed off fear, maybe the terror is the end game.”

“That’s super fucked. Why isn’t he going after us, though?”

“Martin  _ is  _ very nonthreatening!”

Maybe, Martin thought to himself, rebelliously loudly, the evil spider demon saw the inherent goodness of my soul and wanted to form a genuine connection with me. Maybe the evil spider demon previously known as Jonathan Sims had found Martin Li Blackwood to be a genuine friend and wished to re-forge that connection. Maybe he wanted to  _ apologize  _ and  _ hug  _ and maybe even, in a shocking display of emotional intimacy, tell Martin  _ if he had egg sacs— _

“This one’s for you, mate.”

A very nice glass of whiskey on the rocks slid in front of Martin’s vision, and he looked up in surprise to see a smiling waiter in front of him. He jerked his thumb behind him to a woman sitting at the bar, who was sipping at a very large and colorful drink through a straw. She was looking directly at Martin and had big grey eyes. 

“From the lady over there. She sends her compliments.”

With a wink, the waiter went back to attending to other customers, and Martin gaped like a fish. 

Somewhat offensively, Sasha giggled. “That’s so sweet! Pity the poor girl’s barking up the wrong tree. Are you going to let her down easy, Martin?”

“Damn, she’s a catch though,” Tim said, trying unsuccessfully to get the girl’s attention and clearly pouting about it. “She’s  _ majorly  _ cute. What do you think, do I have a chance? She’s obviously into queers.”

“If that’s the criteria,” Sasha said dryly, tugging on Tim’s sleeve to land him back in the seat. 

This had not happened to Martin in a very long time. Outside of a gay bar, where Martin was lead to believe he had a certain niche appeal, it had never happened. He had no idea the protocol or social script for this, and Martin never did  _ anything  _ without a social script.

But the girl was still looking at him and giggling, and Sasha was already starting to lecture him about disrespecting women, and Tim was writing down his  _ own  _ phone number to give Martin to give to the girl, and Martin was very quickly peer-pressured by his friends (?) into actually approaching her. Walking across the pub felt like crossing No Man’s Land, and he forced himself to stand up straight and not play with his fingers. 

The girl was both very striking and very forgettable. The first thing that jumped out at Martin was just how pretty she was: with a round face and bow shaped lips and a gorgeous thick wave of snow white boxbraids that cascaded over one shoulder, her grey eyes seemed large and cute. She was dressed in what looked like a vintage dress, 1950s chic with a navy flared skirt and a bright yellow button-up top. Her smile widened into a grin when Martin approached, and she pointedly gestured him towards the bar stool next to her. 

Martin abruptly felt very sweaty. Was she even out of uni? She was out of uni, right? Martin didn’t want to talk to university students, he was terrified of all of them. “Uh. Hi. Hello! Listen, thank you, but—”

“Sit down, Martin Blackwood, I have better things to do all day then listen to you stutter.”

Oh, thank god, she wasn’t into him. Things made sense again. Martin sat down at the barstool, squinting at the girl. Something about her was familiar: not in the features, but in the otherworldly and striking grey eyes. 

The answer, once it came to him, was obvious. “You’re one of those spider people.”

The girl sipped loudly and obnoxiously at her drink, bold yellow lipstick leaving marks on the straw. “‘One of those spider people’. Please. I’m  _ the  _ spider person.” She made a cutesy ‘v for victory’ sign at him. “I’m the Eldest Daughter of the Mother. You’re familiar with my older brother - my  _ only  _ older sibling, jot that down.” At Martin’s blank and uncomprehending look, the girl sighed. Martin hadn’t missed that she didn’t offer her name, but that seemed to be a running theme with these people. “Age isn’t literal with us. You ever read Charlotte’s Web?”

Yeah, but also Martin knew basic spider facts. He  _ had  _ spent six months with Jon, you didn’t escape him without learning a lot of trivia. “Spiders have a lot of offspring, but only a few survive, right?”

“Yep. You won’t find many records of our siblings in the statements that lovely Sasha James salvaged. There’s quite a few of us, but few ever become powerful enough to be of any note. We have to keep hustling hard to climb up the ranks, get that status and the nifty superpowers, then keep them.” The girl grinned fiercely, and Martin noticed that some of her teeth were just a little too sharp. “Age is a status symbol. I guess you could call me one of Mother’s favorites.”

“This is awesome and all, but are you here to threaten me, or eat me, or…” Martin trailed off, already afraid he had given her some ideas. 

But the girl just laughed, white teeth flashing. “You humans are so cute and funny! It’s been a while since I talked with one of you people outside of an anime forum.” She paused a beat. “I suppose Gerry technically counts, but he’s more like the dad friend, you know?”

Martin… didn’t know why being the ‘dad friend’ and being human was mutually exclusive, but at this point he was afraid to ask. “Look, uh...spider lady, you still haven’t told me why you’re here. And you, uh, seem very nice, but - you people seem good at  _ seeming  _ nice, if you know what I mean? So…”

The girl’s expression sharpened. Her large, cloudy grey eyes narrowed, even as her polite smile stayed fixed firmly in place. She leaned forward slightly, and Martin leaned back, trying very hard not to sweat. 

“This is a courtesy call, so don’t be rude. I’m here as your friend, Martin Blackwood. I’m trying to help you.”

“See,” Martin said, “somehow, I get the feeling that you’re just trying to help yourself.”

Look, Martin can stand up for himself! He can be his own man all night long. He won’t be manipulated. This girl wasn’t manipulating him, he was seeing right through her. Maybe. Hopefully. 

The girl smiled even wider. Her eyes narrowed even further. Martin had the sense he was misstepping, but - well, this girl was giving him the serious creeps. And Martin didn’t like to lie and play nice with people he  _ knew  _ saw him as a trapped fly in their webs. Every inch of his body was screaming at him to get out of here. 

When she unclasped her purse and reached inside, Martin found himself freezing up, but when all she did was take out an embossed invitation, he forced himself to calm down. She passed it to him, and Martin cautiously took it. It was heavy, good quality paper with a good heft. Nice grain. Expensive. 

The front of the letter had his name drawn on it in fine ink. The fancy calligraphy gave his normally boring old name an odd dimension, as if it belonged to someone else. 

“That’s an invitation to my party. It’s more of a ball, really. It’s a very prestigious, classy event. We throw it every year. It’s the one time a year we have a direct line to Mother.” Martin had some idea who Mother was and severely did not want to know anything beyond that. “The guest list’s exclusive, but I guess you and your little friends can come this year. There’s an open bar!”

Uh huh. Martin stared at the envelope in his hands, unamused. “What are you doing.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re very suspicious?” But the girl just leaned in, grin wide and friendly even as her eyes were cold and impersonal. “Do you want Jonathan Sims, Martin?”

Martin’s heart froze in his chest as if gripped by an icy hand. 

“Like,” he said, well aware his voice was creaking humiliatingly high, “as a friend?”

The girl gave him a flat, patented ‘you’re an idiot’ look. Somehow, it was exactly identical to the look Jon used to give him. “No, his body. Do you want to fuck him or don’t you?”

Martin made a noise only audible to dogs.

“Wow, I didn’t know humans could get that red. Fascinating.” The girl rolled her eyes, unimpressed with Martin’s sputtering. “I came here to give you that invitation and to tell you this: for some godforsaken reason, my brother really likes you. I respect his bad choices and his terrible taste in men. But, like, to be honest, you’re kind of a loser, and I think my brother can do better.”

Martin was almost too shocked to feel insulted. Almost. 

The girl leaned in, fixing Martin dead in her stare. “I’m giving you a choice here, Martin. I’m not going to bully you into anything. If you say no, I’ll leave you alone, and I’ll get him to leave you alone too. Do you want him too?”

“I—” There it was again: that cold hand clasped over his heart. “It’s more complicated than that! He lied to us, and I don’t even really know him, and I can’t really care about someone who I’ve never met. I don’t know what kind of weird game is going on between you two, but I really don’t want to get pulled into the middle of it—”

“That’s not what I asked.  _ Do you want him _ ?”

And, almost involuntarily, Martin found himself opening his mouth and saying, “Yes, more than anything.”

The girl leaned back, self-satisfied, and Martin felt vaguely ill. Had he meant to say that? He had, hadn’t he? Right, people can’t just… make him answer questions… that would be silly, ha ha…

Martin felt a little like an ant who had caught the attention of two human children with magnifying glasses and a vindictive streak. It wasn’t a good feeling. 

Maybe vindictive was the word for the girl’s expression: triumphant, self-satisfied, yet something remarkably and pointedly vicious about it. As if she had been looking for a reason to hate him and had finally found it. 

Somehow, Martin found himself saying, “I don’t even know his real name. How can I really know if I like him or not?”

“Bingo,” the girl whispered, almost to herself. She flashed a quick, knife-sharp smile at Martin. “Let’s play a game, future brother-in-law. No, a bet! I  _ bet  _ you that you can’t get my brother to tell you his real name by… let’s say my party, at midnight.” Her grey eyes sparkled with a secret joke. “If you have Jon say his real name at midnight during my party, all of that… monstrousness will fall away, and you will see his true and human self. You’ll meet the real Jonathan Sims. Or, you know, his real name.”

Martin opened his mouth, then closed it. Faintly, he asked, “And if I can’t do it?”

But the girl just shrugged. “Then you’ll go the rest of your life never knowing the true Jonathan Sims. And he’ll go the rest of his life a monster, unseen and unloved for his authentic human self. But if you’re, like, cool with that, no sweat!” She paused a beat. “Also I might turn you into spiders if you really fuck it up bad. But I’m sure you won’t!”

This was a bad idea. Martin did not want to participate in this. He had learned on his mother’s knee not to get in the middle of evil spider people’s cold machinations, and Martin had already spent too long being manipulated. 

But he wasn’t sure he had a choice. And, even worse, he didn’t even know if he was being manipulated or not. The little sister obviously already hated him, and the older brother’s attention… it couldn’t possibly be real or true, could it?

But the girl seemed to think it was true. She seemed very convinced that Martin could have Jon, if he only asked. The thought was heady and made Martin want to sink into the floor. Of course Martin wanted to… of course Jon was  _ attractive _ , but that wasn’t anybody’s business. Whether or not he wanted to… had nothing to do with Jon! How could the sister just  _ offer  _ like that? It was strange, and a little disturbed. He needed to get up, walk away, and never interact with this again. Martin knew better than to mess around with the supernatural.  _ And  _ with rich and hot people who asked after the boy he liked. He’d had enough of both in primary school. 

But...the thought of going the rest of his life never knowing who Jonathan Sims was, not really… the thought of Jon going his entire life unnoticed, unseen, unloved for who he really was… the thought was sadder than Martin could handle.

He wasn’t Sasha, always chasing down a mystery or intrigue with insatiable curiosity. He wasn’t Tim, whose big heart and kindness always made him first to try and protect others or keep them safe. He was just Martin, who had never once had the power to help anybody at all.

Just Martin, who had always been an easy mark. 

The opportunity had finally dropped in his lap. To solve that mystery, to help that victim. And...maybe, if he and Jon could just  _ talk _ , then Martin could…

Could what? What could he do? Turn him human again? Kiss the beast and turn him back into Adam? You would need true love for that. All Jon and Martin had was six months of lies, a probably-definitely-fake infatuation, and a morbid curiosity. 

Jon needed him. Maybe it was that simple. 

“Sure,” Martin said. “I’ll take that bet.”

The girl brightened happily, all traces of animosity gone now that she had gotten what she wanted. She gave her drink one final slurp before hopping off the stool. “Fantastic! Here, let me give you my number. Remember Jon absolutely can’t know about this - if he does, he’ll just clam up. I’ve seen it.” She withdrew a business card from her purse and passed it to Martin, who squinted at it. In large, embossed letters at the top it read ANNABELLE MONTAGUE. What a pretty name. There was a phone number under it and an email address, as well as a web site Martin silently promised himself not to visit. “We’re going to be  _ such  _ good friends, Martin, I know it already.”

“Uh huh.”

“I hope I get to eat you,” Annabelle said, all smiles and happiness, “I really hate men who I just know are going to break my brother’s heart. Toodles!”

Without giving Martin  _ any  _ space to process that, she flashed another victory sign at him and melted back into the crowd. In the space between seconds, she disappeared completely from sight, and Martin was left to wobble uncertainly back to his table. 

Both Tim and Sasha abruptly stopped talking when he approached, which was a sure sign that they had been talking about him. Probably trying to reason out why Martin and Annabelle had been talking for so long. It wasn’t for reasons that anybody could possibly guess, that was for sure. 

Sure enough, Sasha immediately asked accusingly, “What took you so long? That wasn’t some sort of MLM hun, was it?”

“Did you give her my number?” Tim asked. 

Martin groaned and thumped his head on the table. So much nonsense. So little time. 

  
  
  
  


**Day 1 (Jon)**

Believe it or not, Jon enjoyed reading.

He really did! Jon had been quite a bookworm as a child. His peers probably wouldn’t have recognized him with his head out of a book. Mystical lands, a rich and varied cast, engaging narratives of falsehoods and half-truths: it was hardly any wonder that fantasy and science fiction appealed highly to Jon, even back then. He had always had a taste for pretty little lies. 

Nowadays you wouldn’t catch Jon dead reading. It was bad for the skin, frankly, and not nearly as exciting as television or social media. It was a waste of time that Jon could spend working or doing something productive instead. 

But that didn’t mean that Jon didn’t enjoy it. And he  _ loved  _ research. 

Research, at least, was productive. 

Martin Li Blackwood. Born July 10th, 1986, Qinghai Province, China. Allergic to strawberries and shellfish. Lactose Intolerant. Adopted at four months, likely has daddy issues stemming from his early paternal abandonment, definitely has mommy issues from the emotionally abusive mother. Tested well with a high IQ but mediocre grades. Equally mediocre social media presence, took his driver’s license test three times. Cancer.

“That’s not a good sign,” Jon murmured, holding out a hand and letting Gerry press a bottle of chilled mineral water into it. He twisted the cap off, scrolling further through his assembled report. Normally Annabelle and Gerry put these together—they all had their own jobs, and information gathering wasn’t Jon’s—but seeing as this was  _ his  _ gig, he had wanted to do it himself. “Cancers have terrible compatibility with Gemini. Gerry, remind me to tell him I’m a Scorpio.”

Jonathan… let’s use Fredrick… Sims? Or Montague? Born June 10th, 1987. No, born October 23rd, 1987. Jon repeated it to himself firmly, ingraining the detail in his mind. October baby, that’s why fall was his favorite season. Would a vegetarian stress Martin out or make him seem moral? Jon should probably score some moral points, so vegetarian it was. 

“Isn’t that only important if he believes in astrology?” Gerry asked, amused. He was fixing himself his own sandwich, slapping together bologna, mayo, and white bread. No wonder the guy had acne at thirty-one. 

“Of course he believes in astrology,” Jon said, distracted, as he scrolled down on the report. “He has three horoscope apps on his phone.”

“Don’t tell him that you know that.” Gerry shoved the sandwich in his mouth, chewing it obnoxiously, as he leaned on the granite kitchen bar that separated the kitchen area from the dining area. Jon, from where he was sitting on a barstool watching Gerry make himself food, pushed away the unruly mop of black hair the minute it started covering his screen. “Are you sure you don’t want to travel for your vacation? Play some video games? Annabelle’s been feeding off her World of Warcraft guild for years, she’ll teach you how to play.”

Jon wrinkled his nose, taking a pointed sip of his water, and Gerry laughed at him. “This isn’t work. I’m doing it for fun. I’m going to get him to fall in love with me.”

“Really?” Gerry asked, taking a disgustingly big bite of his sandwich. He popped open a bag of chips next to him, and Jon’s stomach burned with jealousy. “In ten days? Is that even possible in real life?”

“Normally it does take me at least a month to get them to propose,” Jon admitted grudgingly. His record so far was two weeks, but in all fairness, they had been on a Carribean cruise. Maybe Jon could arrange for Martin to win something? “It doesn’t have to be perfect, just good enough for Mother to approve. Besides, that’s the challenge. You know how much I hate to get bored.”

Gerry rolled his eyes, swallowing his mouthful of sandwich. “You’ve toppled Avatars because you were bored. We did that rock band for a  _ year  _ because you were bored. Trust me, I get it.”

“We should get the band back together,” Jon said seriously. “I miss the drugs.”

“God,  _ so  _ many drugs,” Gerry sighed. “We never got around to opening for Fall Out—never mind.” Gerry grabbed Jon’s tablet out of his hands, ignoring his sad cry, and quickly leafed through the report at light-speed. “Insecure, low self-esteem, hideously gay—yep, you could get this guy in a few days, no issue. Your ID being busted’s going to cause problems, but— _ Jon! _ ”

Jon winced. He’d found the bottom of the document. 

Gerry whirled on him, eyes wide, and even as Jon reached out to grab it, he jumped backwards, keeping it out of Jon’s hands. He shook the tablet as if it was an unruly kitten. “Since when do you put someone’s PornHub preferences in your character reports?”

“I told you I’m on a time crunch,” Jon snapped, reaching up from his seat to try to grab the tablet back. But Gerry kept it out of reach, and Jon was left half-stretching over the bar. “This is my case, it’s hardly any of your—”

“You’re the one who keeps saying someone’s sexual preferences have nothing to do with their psyche or personality outside of sexual contexts, Jon! What good is this to you?”

“It’s vital background if I’m going to sleep with him,” Jon said crossly, and Gerry froze.

Taking advantage of the moment of weakness, Jon hopped onto the bar and snatched the tablet out of Gerry’s grubby little hands. He brushed it down fussily, wiping off the mayonnaise fingerprint, and frowned at the highlighted results. It was very flattering how…  _ notably  _ different the man’s searches had become once he met Jon. He would have to schedule a romantic date where he read them to him out loud or something—

But what if Martin didn’t like men who were smart, or who read? A lot of the time, other men didn’t. Jon could play dumb if Martin wanted. Lots of men wanted that. 

Martin had been very into the Archivist, so he  _ probably  _ liked intelligent men. But Jon didn’t want to make Martin feel insecure. It was best to play himself down, seem like someone who needed to be taken care of—Martin loved taking care of people, it was right there in his file—

“Bro,” Gerry said, obviously fighting to keep his voice even, “since when do  _ you _ —”

“Since now, apparently.”

Both Jon and Gerry turned in surprise to see Annabelle duck inside the dining area, twirling her keys in her hand. She was wearing her ‘cute yet unassuming’ dress, the vintage number with the navy skirt and yellow top. She must have come straight from the foyer—had she been out? Annabelle never went outside for fun. 

When Jon glanced at Gerry, he saw that he was thinking the same thing. 

“Anna,” Gerry said disapprovingly, with his patented ‘big brother’ voice. The one he had used once on Jon when Jon was fifteen and Gerry was seventeen that earned him an immediate punch in the face. “What were you doing.”

“Borrowing a cup of sugar from the neighbor,” Annabelle said brightly. She put her purse down on the bar and slid onto the stool next to Jon, batting her eyelashes at the two unamused men. “Relax, it was just some recon for our next gig.”

Jon perked up. “What are you working on?”

“Remember when Annabelle got those Black Spider letters from Prince Charles?” Gerry asked, cuing Jon to nod and Annabelle to pull an ‘aw, shucks’ expression. “We’re moving onto Prince Andrew. We have some intel about him in a certain someone’s little black book.”

“Maybe I can help—”

“You are not helping,” Gerry said severely, wagging a finger, and Jon scowled at him. “Agnes said you’re benched, so you’re benched.”

“She’s not my mum,” Jon bitched uselessly. 

“Don’t let her hear you say that, she’ll ground you.”

“Shit, you’re right.”

“Anyway,” Annabelle said brightly, clapping her hands. “I told Jon I’d help him with his little boy problem, so we’re going to hang out in my room and plot.” She plucked what looked like a small receipt out of her bag, passing it to Gerry. He scanned it quickly. “And  _ that’s  _ the locations and names of three Leitners I dug up. Grab Agnes and have her help you burn them. Happy Christmas!”

“Fuck yeah!” Gerry yelled, crumpling the receipt in his hands. “Anna, you’re the best! That rat old bastard’s days are fucking numbered! Avatar of the  _ whore— _ ”

Then Gerry was off and ranting again, and Annabelle and Jon glanced at each other before rolling their eyes and mouthing along to his inane rant. Annabelle tugged at Jon’s sleeve, and Jon took a second to grab his mineral water before running off with her and escaping back into her room. 

Jon’s room was mostly bare and devoid of personal clutter. He had never been one for ‘stuff,’ as it were. All of the necessary accessories for his grifts were kept in a separate room—boasting, among many other things, a skateboard, a guitar, and a ghost talking box—so there was no point in keeping any personal items in his room. Or keeping any personal items at all, really. 

Annabelle’s room, which was where she spent the vast majority of her time, was nothing  _ but  _ personal items. 

She tugged him into her bedroom, securely locking the door behind her as Jon blinked in recoil against the visual assault of plushies, action figures, collectibles, manga, comic books, and a  _ truly  _ impressive pastel and Sanrio themed gaming rig. Jon didn’t know why one needed that much space to play video games, or a monitor that big, or a computer that cost  _ that  _ much money. Jon settled for swiping away an army of oversized My Little Pony plushies and settling in on her bed. He found himself staring into the emotionless eyes of a giant Porg, scrutinizing him for his sins. 

“So I totally lied to Gerard,” Annabelle said delightedly as she bounced into place next to him. She reached over and grabbed one of her—Japanese llama things? It was the size of his head, including hair—and stuffed it in her lap before drawing out Jon’s own phone. 

“Wow, you? Lying to someone?” Jon asked, rolling his eyes. “Give me my phone back.”

“I was actually scoping out Blackwood. I managed to slip him an invite to my party, that’ll hook him. All you have to do is reel him in.”

Jon brightened. “Annie, that’s brilliant! I can’t believe you actually went outside for that!”

“Don’t remind me, I think I still have hives. You put that report together, right?” Jon passed her the tablet quickly reclaimed from Gerry, letting Annabelle take a few seconds to skim through it at lightning speed. “Definitely pass yourself off as a Scorpio.”

“That’s what  _ I’ve  _ been saying!”

“Right, right, this is perfect.” Annabelle reached the bottom of the document, reading it closely, and Jon fought a flinch. But she didn’t frown, just read through the whole series of notes, eyes blank, mind working furiously. She put the tablet down, snapping her fingers at Jon. “Right. Blackwood’s ultimate fantasy, go.”

Jon jumped up from the bed, immediately beginning to pace the room. Movement helped him think, which Annabelle had always teased him about. She couldn’t think unless she was sitting or lying down on something. “Since he fell for the Archivist originally, wouldn’t it be the safest bet to retreat to that persona? He’s seriously into the sexy professor type.”

But Annabelle just shook her head. “He knows it’s a con, though. You could go close?”

“No. Martin likes to feel special, like most insecure people. If I toss a false ‘discovery’ at him, he’ll be proud and satisfied. I have to convince him that he’s shucked the ‘false’ Jonathan Sims, and now he’s meeting the ‘true’ one.” Jon stood in front of Annabelle and carefully adjusted his hair until it was flowing loosely and easily over his shoulders. He pitched his voice into a working class MLE accent, slightly lower than his usual register to allow for Martin’s obvious thing for his voice. “I’m Jonathan Sims, born and raised in London, I’m self-employed, but I volunteer at the local library as a hobby—”

“Children’s section!”

Jon snapped his fingers. “Children’s section! I want—I want  _ you _ , Martin, desperately, and…” Jon ran through the old drama exercise, remembering the last question: what would you do if you don’t get what you want? “...if I don’t get it, I’ll live the rest of my life knowing that I ruined the best thing that could have happened to me.”

“Perfect.” Annabelle squeezed her Japanese llama thing, for all appearances deep in thought. “I overheard him talking with his friends at the pub during my recon. They were talking about you.”

Jon faltered, breaking out of the affected stance. “What did they say?”

Annabelle blinked up at him, eyes wide and guileless. “They said that they all used to hate how much of a nerd you were. That Tim guy said all you did was read.”

“Oh.” These were good notes. Jon would remember to keep all his actual—all the dumb nerdiness out of his persona. “What else?”

“Sasha said you talked  _ way  _ too much about random trivia,” Annabelle continued, and Jon ruthlessly squashed a little stirring of embarrassment. This was  _ good _ , it was character building. “Like, she said you ranted for twenty minutes about emulsifiers once?”

“They’re very interesting,” Jon muttered. 

“Obviously! You know  _ I  _ love hearing about you and emulsifiers, Jon. Martin, though…” Annabelle trailed off significantly, and Jon conceded her point. “There was a bunch of other stuff too, but it’s no big deal. Just, oh, you’re too distractible, you act too smart, you’re too forceful, that kind of thing.” Maybe something was in Jon’s expression, because Annabelle quickly added, “Martin said that he  _ loved  _ your hair and that your arse was to die for, though!”

Jon brightened. “He said I had a nice arse?”

“Definitely, best in London.” That was just objectively true. Annabelle hummed again in thought, clearly deep in her plotting mode. “What fake identity are you going to give him?”

Jon stopped short, blinking at her. He had a few ones lined up, and it would be no hassle to mock up a new one, but… “He already knows my real name. I figured I’d fudge a few details but keep the name consistent. The idea is to let him think that he’s discovered the ‘true’ me, isn’t it?”

But Annabelle just hummed again, gears obviously grinding in her head. “I’m just worried. Sasha’s pretty good with computers, and she said that she’s been digging for your true identity with your real name.”

It was like she had injected ice water into his bloodstream. “I thought you said that you erased my Bournemouth identity,” Jon said, lips almost numb. 

“I did,” Annabelle said quickly, “but you know how the internet is. It’s difficult to wipe a human being off it so completely that it’s like they never existed. I did my best, but…”

“But it wasn’t complete.” Jon’s chest felt tight, and he purposefully flexed his fingers to keep them still and steady. “Annabelle, he  _ can’t  _ find out. I’ll use the Montague identity, that one doesn’t have records—”

“The obviously fake one—”

“Then I’ll make up a Jonathan Sims from London,” Jon snapped, and Annabelle pursed her lips at him in recrimination. Jon sighed, kneading his brow. “Sorry. Just… Sasha’s too suspicious now. Nothing we say is going to convince her I’m Johnny Human. Let’s just aim for ‘nonthreatening.’ That I can do.” Jon altered his stance again, tousling his long, shoulder-length curls, and adopted a wide-eyed and innocent expression. “My name’s Jonathan Sims, and I’ve been  _ so  _ lonely since I was kidnapped by an evil spider demon as a child and forced to become a sexy monster.”

But even as Annabelle laughed and Jon preened under the attention, he found his mind running in rabid circles around the stubborn stain on his soul. Had they really all noticed? Had they all seen his persistently disgusting habits corrupting his personas again: the little things he couldn’t stop doing and the words he couldn’t stop saying no matter how hard he tried? Was Sasha really trying to dig it all up: the detritus of a life long since abandoned, remembered by nobody, important to no one?

Why was it so difficult to  _ kill  _ Jonathan Andrew Sims?

  
  


Maybe it would be safest to go for the texting thing again. Just send a ‘u up’ text, workshop something suitably enticing enough to convince him to meet in public, propose another date, touch him strategically, so on and so on. 

However, that was not dramatic at all. Not in the least. It actually seemed completely and totally boring. Jon’s attention span wasn’t very good, and he had to make things at least a  _ little  _ exciting for himself so he would remember to do them, so he decided to do the funnier thing and break into Martin’s flat instead. 

Martin was out on a job interview with a local library, applying for assistant librarian. Jon had made a few calls, impersonated a few other applicants, and falsified an email from a programs director, so he was likely to land it. Never one hundred percent certain to land it, but even Jon could hardly punch one plus one into reality and always get two. He could manipulate a dozen, two dozen, five dozen factors in any given situation, but when every decision was the result of a million factors and coincidences and lucky chances, guarantees did not exist. 

Best he could do was 98%. Jon was  _ very  _ good. 

Secure in the knowledge that he was doing a Philanthropic Deed by securing his future boyfriend a nice, cozy library job checking out books and putting together children’s storytime programming, Jon threw on an exterminator uniform and grabbed a large toolkit as a prop. All the world was a stage, Jon thought egotistically, and he was the lead actor in top billing with legions of crazed fangirls outside of the door. 

Martin’s apartment building was pathetic. Small, not ramshackle but certainly not nice, and faintly smelling of weed, it reminded Jon of where he, Agnes, and Gerry had first lived. Back when Agnes was in hiding from her cult, and Gerry was in hiding from his Mum, and Jon was in hiding from basically his entire life. Agnes was still figuring out the money thing, Gerry was still learning how to cook anything that wasn’t microwaved meals, and Jon was growing a new leg a day. Bad times. 

That  _ no longer mattered _ ! It was the work of minutes to affect a blue collar accent, knock on the door of the landlord, and spin some story about being the exterminator one of the tenants had requested. There were  _ always  _ requests for exterminators. The landlord passed over the key, Jon happily freed his poor hair of that clammy and gross cap, and with two hours to spare, Jon slipped inside Martin’s flat with a minimal amount of effort and no breaking-and-entering. Which he was capable of, but found rather gauche. 

The interior of Martin’s flat was just as unimpressive from exterior, if slightly better loved. Jon stood in the entryway, hands propped on his hips, surveying the entire set-up. Off-yellow plaster walls, thin carpet, and almost white linoleum where Jon’s flat was all stainless steel and granite and polished glass. It was barely three rooms, which even Jon knew was pretty good for a single occupant London flat: a living area attached to a kitchen area with a little extra space for a kitchen table, a small bedroom, and a bathroom. Many in London had less with far more roommates. No wonder he had been applying to five jobs a day. 

Martin’s bedroom, which Jon immediately checked out first for the familiar joy of intrusion into one’s innermost private life, was as expected. One shabby bed, lofted to allow for extra storage of winter coats and such underneath. Big enough for two, Jon noted—optimistic, then. Correctly optimistic! But optimistic. The most notable thing about it was the shabby bookshelf filled spitefully with battered volumes of poetry and, on lower shelves, some thicker books. 

Jon found himself crouching down, squinting at the top shelves—Siken, Carson, Dorothy Parker, Mary Oliver, predictably homosexual—before moving on to the the lower shelves. Murakami, pretentious. Garcia Marquez, good choice.  _ Medea _ and  _ Antigone _ , good choices, and refined choice of translator. The guy knew his way around the classics. Jon found himself lighting up when he saw a few half-shoved away volumes of Folger’s Shakespeare, the kind you’d find in any used bookstore— _ Much Ado About Nothing  _ and  _ Midsummer’s Night Dream  _ were nearer the front, but if Jon carefully peeled away the top layer, he found a far more complete collection of  _ King Lear _ ,  _ The Tempest _ ,  _ Macbeth _ , and  _ Hamlet _ . 

Put yourself in Martin’s shoes, Jon told himself. You’re bringing a guy home, and you’re just  _ so  _ nervous about it. You want him to think you’re smart and well-read! You aren’t just here for a hook-up, you’re here for a commitment. Let him see your Shakespeare, that says a lot about you. See the comedies, the romances, the weddings-ever-after. 

The… less recognizable ones. Why would he hide his recognizable, flashy tragic titles near the back? What was the point of having a bookshelf full of classics if nobody saw them?

It was the kind of thing Jon would do: falsify a bookshelf full of romance when your real interest lay in tragedy. He just hadn’t known it was the kind of thing  _ Martin  _ would do. 

Further mysteries in the life of Martin Blackwood. Jon stored it away in his character file and quickly scanned the room for any other personal character notes. Besides all of the writing and reading paraphernalia—Jon quickly found a stack of journals in his nightstand containing half-written poetry, insufferably dull—there was only one other personal note in the room. A little framed picture, cheap frame but chosen with care, of Martin sitting with—

The Archive team. Tim, smiling, with an arm thrown over Sasha’s and Martin’s shoulders, making a peace sign with his fingers. Sasha was smiling naturally and happily; Martin was smiling awkwardly but with a well-hidden exuberance. The Archivist was sitting slightly to the side, hunched over his ice cream cone, unhappy to be there but tolerating the others because he really did secretly love his bestest friends, after all. 

Jon took too long staring at the Archivist. Longer than he should have. The Archivist’s posture was slightly off—his shoulders were hunched defensively, but he shouldn’t be so bent over, it was out of character. There was a little smear of chocolate at the corner of his mouth, it was slovenly. His ears were shaped so funny and awkward, and if you insisted on tying up the long hair into a bun because it was professional, then they were on full display. At that angle he looked like he had a paunch. He had talked way too long about rum raisins, it was annoying. 

The rest of the flat was clean, which was a positive. Nobody in Jon’s house knew or bothered to clean up after themselves, so they had a housekeeper come in once a week. When Jon ducked into the bathroom, he found it recently cleaned, complete with scrubbed bathtub. Inside the medicine and linen cabinets was a mess, however. The kitchen was relatively bare of food, mostly stocked with easy-to-cook meals, half-depleted. Many boxes of cheap pasta, and one box of nice fettuccine. A few half-eaten bags of snacks that were more expensive than the others. Lots of Barry’s, a worrying number of Ribena bottles, more canned Heinz beans than Jon preferred. Most everything in the kitchen came from a tin or package. Almost nothing was perishable save some potatoes. 

He skimped for himself but shelled out for his friends.

Who came over. 

With some frequency.

Jon faltered. They were friends now. Actual, genuine friends. They hung out and played the battered board games under the cheap telly and split the cheap vodka in the cabinet and bitched about their lives. Their lives had gone on without him, and the Archivist’s had not, because the Archivist was not real. 

The door rattled. 

Jon jumped a foot in the air, as easily startled as ever. Jesus, he was on edge. It was just a mailman or the landlord or—

“Martin? It’s Sasha! I’m coming in!”

_ Shit shit shit shit shit— _

Who the fuck didn’t even knock before coming into someone else’s house! Who the fuck just let themselves in! Martin wasn’t expecting her, he was still at that damned job interview— _ fuck the door was swinging open _ —

Without thinking about it any further, Jon dived for the loo and quickly locked himself inside. If she was just dropping in to drop some parcels off, then she’d just put them down and leave, and she would  _ not  _ need to use the loo. 

Jon leaned against the sink, carefully modulating his breathing, as he listened to Sasha’s habitual heels click throughout the flat. There was no thump, no sign she was putting anything down. Actually, she seemed almost as if she was trying to be quiet. Even the sound of her heels was muffled on the cheap carpet. 

Sasha, Sasha, Sasha. Jon frantically ran through his mental file on her, trying to tease out what she was doing. Sasha James Martinez, got a perfect score on her British Citizenship Test, BAME officer of the local Transgender youth support group and member of the Twilight People project, Virgo. None of this was helpful. Didn’t gay little Hermione Granger have emotional weaknesses? 

A door audibly creaked, a door that could only be the bedroom. Jon was beginning to wonder if Sasha was, perhaps,  _ also  _ gathering character information for a grift. Or if she was stealing from Martin. 

Hm. Jon had trained his—the Archivist had trained his assistants to commit breaking and entering felonies without any guilt or shame. This was why monsters and humans shouldn’t mingle—now they were doing crimes, and he had opinions on Murakami again. 

The door to the loo rattled. 

“Martin? It’s Sasha. I thought you were at your interview?”

You know what? They could both be clowns today. Jon waited carefully until Sasha’s hand was off the doorknob before he straightened, carefully arranged his hair and pretended to himself that he was not wearing an exterminator’s uniform, cycled through several different mental options of expressions before he settled on something blandly neutral, and opened the door. 

Sasha’s jaw dropped. In her defense, seeing her monstrous ex-boss hiding in her friend’s loo wearing an exterminator’s uniform was  _ probably  _ not how she had imagined spending her afternoon. Slightly less to her defense, she was clearly hiding a large manilla envelope behind her back. 

“Do you mind?” Jon asked. “I’m using the loo.”

  
  
  


Sasha James was easy.

She probably thought that she was very difficult, actually. Sasha thought that she possessed great depths, that she was an old soul, that she really was smarter than everybody else, and she could prove it, too. Sasha had an unbridled drive for justice, truth, and freedom. Sasha was a social activist. Sasha voted Labour and encouraged her co-workers to unionize. 

It was because of all of this, not in spite of it, that Sasha James was extremely easy to manipulate. Difficult to manipulate without her  _ knowing  _ you were manipulating her, but Jon found that people tended to assume that just because they knew what you were doing that meant that they were immune to it. It was rarely the case. 

Her immediate reaction upon seeing him was innocent confusion. Her second reaction was fear. She made an abortive movement to her right, intending to grab the pepper spray in her purse, before realizing that she had left it next to the door. From there, hypocritical outrage warred with healthy fear warred with sheer curiosity. Jon saw it all unfold within her mind, as obvious as if he was thinking it himself. Because it was Sasha James, curiosity would always win out, and self-preservation would always take a back seat. Tim would attack, Martin might run, but Sasha would interrogate. 

Play into it. Jon raised his hands in faux-surrender, keeping his expression neutral and blank. She’d waste energy trying to figure it out. “Do you mind? I was using the loo.”

Immediately, Sasha jumped in. “ _ Jon _ ?!”

Would she want something closer to the Archivist (“Yes, very astute, Sasha”) or would she feel pandered to? Probably the latter. What was she expecting? A reflection of what she, herself, was feeling. Defensiveness, paranoia, guilt. Jon normally tried to bend himself to expectations, but that would disappoint her. Better to play it exactly opposite, scratch that itch. 

“In the flesh! For a given value of flesh, of course.” Jon wriggled his fingers in a wave. He smiled brightly, cheerful and welcoming, as if he was inviting her into his own flat. “Wonderful to see you again, love what you’ve done with your hair. Did you style it? I like the volume.”

“What are you doing in Martin’s flat?” Sasha asked blankly. Her eyes widened. “Are you two—”

Tempting, but she would definitely check with Martin, and Jon didn’t want to tip his hand too quickly. “What are  _ you  _ doing in Martin’s flat? You know he’s at that interview.”

“I asked first,” Sasha shot back. 

Despite himself, Jon smiled broader. He always really had liked her. “I’m stalking him, obviously. And you aren’t going to tell him, because if you do, then I’ll tell  _ him  _ that you’re stealing back the statements you rescued from the fire.”

Sasha stared at him, wide eyed. Jon kept the pleasant and vapid smile stapled onto his face, well aware that it now seemed somewhat threatening. 

Finally, Sasha said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  
  
  


They went to a coffee shop. Sasha didn’t put the statements back. Jon, who did not care, did not try to stop her. He let her lock up after them, had her wait outside as he dropped back by the landlord’s and exchanged jovial comments about the weather, and they cautiously led each other towards the nearest cafe on the corner. 

He could practically see her list up every single question she had for him in her head, likely starting with how does one become a spider person and ending with what he was doing in Martin’s apartment. 

Jon did not like answering questions. Jon held little respect for knowledge for the sake of knowledge. Jon found knowledge in general a waste of valuable brain space that could be used to remember fashion labels. Jon did not even particularly want to go anywhere further with Sasha James, but every time he tried to peel away, she glared at him until he drifted back to her side. It was like he was being kidnapped. Even worse, he was being  _ seen  _ in  _ public  _ in this  _ outfit _ . It was practically cruel and unusual. 

“Are you sure you can’t just leave me alone?” Jon asked hopefully, feigning a sip of his caramel latte. As if he would drink sludge full of  _ that  _ much sugar. Jon cheated on his licensing exams, not on his diets. 

“No way,” Sasha said immediately. She was already wrangling a laptop out of her bag, bringing a tape recorder along with it. A legal pad and several pens tumbled onto the table too, and Sasha frantically opened her laptop as she scribed something onto the legal pad with her other hand. “I’ve been putting together theories for months, and now that I  _ finally  _ have a first-hand account of Smirke’s Fourteen, I’m not letting you out of here until you confirm all my hypotheses.”

An empty can of Monster rolled out of her bag. Jon eyed it with disgust. 

“See,” Jon said, slowly rising from his chair, “I really have better things to do than… whatever that is. So I think I’m just going to go…”

But even as he was standing, Sasha was smiling dangerously at him. “Whatever you were trying to find out about Martin, I’ll tell you.”

Jon sat back down. Sasha smiled pleasantly at him. Jon smiled even more pleasantly at her. 

“One favor, and one question,” Jon said. “You get five. I’ll either answer truthfully or pass.”

“Stellar. Classic. Can I say, you’ve smiled more in the last five minutes than in the six months I worked for you, but I’m trying to leave all of my preconceptions at the door.” Sasha flipped open a thick and tattered notebook to what looked like an intricate diagram, pushing it across the table at him. Jon squinted at it. “Can you confirm this diagram, and/or make the appropriate revisions? Thanks!”

Jon looked at the diagram. There were lots of… words and things. From what he could tell, it was a kind of chart organizing Smirke’s Fourteen. He recognized a few names and places—Diego Molina, who owed him five bucks; that homophobic vase Mikaele bragged about; Mikaele himself—along with a great deal he did not. 

The part of the diagram marked under ‘THE WEB’ was the most detailed, for obvious reasons. He read, with heavy quotes, ‘ “JONATHAN SIMS”/ELDEST CHILD’, linked through lines to ‘AGNES MONTAGUE (WEB/FLAME?)’ and ‘GERRY KEAY (MARY KEAY/HUMAN?)’. Lots of notes about manipulation, lying, deceit... rude!

“You have your own file,” Sasha said helpfully, as if Jon’s confusion was offense or something. “Actually—and this is question number two, by the way—what’s your real name? Jonathan Sims is such an obvious placeholder, I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. If you don’t have a name, I can just call you by your title—”

“It says Jonathan Montague on my birth certificate,” Jon said casually, although judging by Sasha’s narrowed eyes, she caught his evasiveness on if it  _ was  _ his real name. “Eldest Child of the Mother of Puppets, The Weaver, The Faceless Son, Puppetcrafter… Mike Crew calls me a son of a bitch, which is rude because she’s a spider… any of that works. Names are names.”

“They don’t have power or anything?”

“No? They’re literally just words on a notarized piece of paper, jeez.” Jon scratched his nose, pushing the notebook back. “Your diagram’s cute? Sorry, I don’t exactly have all of the Entities memorized or anything.”

“But you work for one!” Sasha burst out, clicking her pen emphatically. 

“So did you, and you didn’t know what’s going on?”

“There’s some…” Sasha waved her pen around, as if it made sense to anyone but her. “Consensus, right? Like your primordial forces of evil told you what’s right and what’s wrong, right?”

“Uh.” Jon scratched his nose again. “Is that your third question?”

“You didn’t answer my first one!”

“Look, it’s not my job to  _ think  _ about these things,” Jon whined. Sasha did an obvious double-take: surprised, maybe, by the idea of not caring about the intricate philosophical laws of man and beast. Or maybe just surprised that Jon didn’t care. “It’s my job to - you know, flirt with people, scam them, dump them. Whatever. Go ask Oliver about this, he has thoughts on the whole thing.”

“Okay,” Sasha said slowly. Despite the fact that he hadn’t told her anything useful, she was still writing something down anyway. “Third question:  _ why  _ do you do that? I found the stack of statements you hid in your office right before Agnes burned it down. You and your team are in  _ tons  _ of statements. I’ve cross-referenced them with the news, too. Rich swots dying, corrupt people losing their businesses, blackmail spilled on Wikileaks… so much of it can be traced back to you and your team. Why?”

“Guy’s gotta eat.” Jon yawned. “Next question?”

Sasha bristled. “Can you at least  _ try  _ to actually answer?”

“There’s actually, like, this whole ranking system—never mind.” Jon sighed again, loud and bored, and feigned another sip of his coffee. “If you asked one of those… Darkness or Eternal Flame cult idiots about it, they’d call it sacrificing to their god. Like the ancient Greeks scraping a little off their plate into the fire for Zeus or whatever. I don’t know if they actually do that, I just saw it in Percy Jackson. That was a good movie. Have you ever seen Percy Jackson? I heard they made some books off it.”

“The movie’s based off the books, actually.”

“Oh, like Harry Potter? I always fell asleep during those movies.” Jon refrained from smiling as Sasha started visibly gritting her teeth. “Anyway, you sacrifice to your god, you get cool powers. That’s the logic of it.” Jon slumped in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. There was a spider in the distant corner. Annabelle was listening in. But she always was. “That’s  _ a  _ way of  _ looking  _ at it. It’s not  _ true _ , it’s just what a bunch of people think. Truth is fake. If you’re looking for it, you’re going to disappoint yourself big time.”

“So the Mother of Puppets is your god?”

Jon sneered at her. “She’s my  _ mother _ . It’s in the  _ name _ . Question number four?”

“What’s your superpower?” Sasha asked eagerly, pen flying on her paper. “The survivors of the Desolation cult massacre can control fire and survive it, can’t they? And Jane Prentiss could… control worms? Or she was worms? If you terrorize people—”

“I only terrorize people who deserve it,” Jon said tersely. This was important to him. 

Sasha noted that down. Including, likely, the fact that it was important to him. “So if you feed your… Mum, and she gives you superpowers in return, what are the superpowers?”

Tedious, tedious, tedious. Jon sighed loudly, pulling out a makeup compact and taking the opportunity to check his subtle eyeshadow. Smeared. Sloppy! He pulled out a brush and carefully touched it up, ignoring Sasha’s incredulous look. “Do you see the cashier behind the counter? The short girl.”

Sasha peered over Jon’s shoulder, nodding. Jon didn’t have to crane his head backwards to look at the cashier—that was what the compact was for. “Yeah?”

“She’s going to walk over here in three… two… one.”

Sure enough, the compact mirror showed a short, waif-y girl with short dyed hair ducking out from behind the counter and carefully sliding up to Jon’s table. She was holding a white pastry bag and cautiously placed it on Jon’s table. Jon snapped the compact shut at her and gave her his most lovely smile, and he visibly saw her melt. Sasha looked fairly disgusted. 

“Uh, it’s - it’s for you. Bye.”

Red faced, the girl quickly escaped back to the counter, and Jon wriggled his fingers in a wave that made her flush even harder. Sasha reached out with her pen and cautiously poked the bag, as if it was a live bomb. 

“I didn’t hear you order this…”

“I didn’t. Take it, will you? It’s a bagel, and I don’t eat carbs.” Jon yawned, flashing another bright smile at the cashier until she retreated into the back room in shame. Sasha fished out the bagel, reading the signature and number scrawled on the bag with pursed lips. Jon fought the urge to roll his eyes, bored. “ ‘Did he flirt with her? All he did was order. Maybe he brainwashed her?’”

Sasha’s eyes snapped to him. “How did you know I was thinking that?”

“ ‘Is he a mind reader like Elias? Maybe he really was working for the Beholding the entire time.’ “ Jon took another fake sip of his coffee as Sasha blanched again. “ ‘Quick, think of something completely unrelated to test this.’ Then I’m guessing you thought of something tedious only you know, like Percy Jackson titles. I’m not a literal mind reader.”

“That was damn close,” Sasha said, eyes wide. She looked a little scared but mostly excited. Too excited. This woman wasn’t going to live very long. “How did you do that?”

“It’s just cold reading,” Jon said dully. “You know when psychics get in touch with Great Aunt Fanny from beyond the grave? It’s almost nothing more than that. Call me a hyper-empath. You know, like Shane Dawson.”

“You always know what people want to hear. That’s how you’re such a good liar.” Sasha said slowly. “You can read—histories, pasts, inner minds, everything, just by looking at someone or talking to them?” What she was saying caught up with her mind, and her eyes widened. “That’s why you were at Martin’s. You were researching him! Why?”

“No normal human could do what I do,” Jon said primly, politely ignoring the invasive question about what he was doing going through Martin’s personal belongings. “A normal human wouldn’t have been able to use body language to convince that cashier that I was into her, that I really wanted the bagel but wouldn’t order it, that she should get it for me for free, and that she should put it on the table right now.” He arched an eyebrow at Sasha. “And a normal human wouldn’t have known that you’d get around to asking me about the traits my mother passed onto her child right about now. Don’t give me that look. It’s not hard or anything if you’re just good with people and also king of spiders.” Jon shrugged. “That’s all I am. Good with people. And king of spiders.”

“A king of spiders who sold his soul to an Eldritch force that manipulates and controls people for the power to manipulate and control people in turn,” Sasha said archly, and Jon waved his hand in concession of the point. Sticks and stones. “Last question, okay. Why did—”

“Can you do me a favor and answer my question first, though?”

Sasha skidded to a stop. Here it was: she knows that Jon knows the question that she’s about to ask, that if he’s putting it off then that means that he knows it’ll signal the end of the conversation, then he will blah blah blah.

Jesus, it was way too much work to sit down and puzzle out every single little thing someone was feeling. Who had time for that? Who cared? He wasn’t Jonah fucking Magnus. Jon preferred to save time and energy by convincing people that he knew every thought that crossed their minds, sending them into a spiral of paranoia where they overthought every interaction with him, and he could fall asleep with his eyes open. Much more efficient. 

“Uh,” Sasha said, after presumably weighing the ‘I know’ / ‘he knows I know’ / ‘I know he knows I know’ tennis match back and forth in her head. “Sure?”

“Class. Do me a favor and text Martin. Tell him that… oh, you ran into me today, and we had a long conversation. Tell him that I do want to meet, just to talk. It’s about Annabelle’s party. Tell him that you don’t think I’m malicious, and that you can verify I’m not a freak. Sound good? It’s all true.”

Sasha pursed her lips at him, but she honored deals. She took her phone out of her bag and slowly typed in his message, showing it to him. He looked it over ( **Sasha** : hey ran into your spider stalker today. He says you two should meet up about Annabelle’s (????) party?? I dont think its to eat you alive. Call me about this in a few. Hope ur interview went well!) before giving her the thumbs up and watching her send it. 

“What’s the question?” Sasha asked, storing her phone back in her bag. 

“What’s Tim’s mobile number?” 

Sasha stared at him blankly. “Don’t you have it? You’ve texted him before.”

“I flush my mobile after every gig.” Not that he couldn’t just as easily find Tim’s number online, but this was more fun. “Come on, it’s my only question.”

She gave it to him, with no small amount of caution, and Jon happily punched it into his phone and began typing out a message. “What are you telling him?”

“Nothing important,” Jon said casually, pressing send on the message. “Just that you’re going back on your promise to stop reading the statements, and that you snuck into Martin’s flat to steal back the statements he confiscated from you.” At Sasha’s betrayed expression, Jon said, “Look, I promised not to tell  _ Martin _ . I didn’t make any assurances about anybody else.”

Immediately, Sasha’s mobile began ringing, and Jon began to stand up. Tim would distract her, Jon would bounce, and they could all go home in the utmost happiness. 

But Sasha just denied the call, and when her phone immediately started ringing again, she turned it off. Jon froze, already standing up, and Sasha stood up just as quickly until they were engaged in an idiotic stare-off over uneaten food and conspiracy maps. 

“Question number five,” Sasha said clearly, and something about her tone stopped Jon short. “Were we ever really friends?”

Jon… deadass didn’t know what to do with that. 

“Sasha, I was lying,” Jon said blankly. Had he misjudged her intelligence? Someone of Sasha’s brains had to have picked up the cues here. “I was scamming you people.”

But she just waved a hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, we know. But I’m asking you now—and don’t you  _ dare  _ lie to me, Jonathan Sims-Montague-whatever. Did you ever care about us? As people?”

Jon stared at her, unable to comprehend or maybe just not wanting to. 

Finally, all he could think to say was, “I don’t care about anybody but myself.”

“I think yourself is the one person you  _ don’t  _ care about, actually,” Sasha said, and Jon was so startled by the completely unfamiliar sensation of being perceived and understood that he turned sharply on his heel and exited the coffee shop as quickly as he could. 

Whoever said humans weren’t dangerous—was it Perry? That felt like something Perry would say—was a  _ liar _ . 


	2. Chapter 2

**Martin (Day 2)**

  
  


Eventually, Martin screwed his courage to the sticking place. He was already running out of time. 

**Martin:** Hey, it’s Martin.

Of course it was Martin. Backspace, backspace, backspace. 

**Martin:** Hey Jon!

_ Way  _ too enthusiastic. 

**Martin:** Hey Jon, I got a text from Sasha yesterday. I highly doubt it was an accident that you two ran into each other

No, no point putting him on the defensive. Martin didn’t want to be adversarial, he wanted to make Jon feel safe enough to be honest with him. But he didn’t want Jon to steamroll over him either. He needed to establish clear boundaries. 

**Martin:** Hey Jon, I got a text from Sasha yesterday. She said to hear you out. Do you want to meet up today? I think we need to talk. 

There. Martin closed his phone, threw it on his nightstand, and panicked silently alone in bed for probably way too long. 

He was in over his head. Martin had a normal life before this. He had resigned himself long ago to the fact that he would never accomplish anything important, that he’d never be a special person. It was fine, honestly. Martin wasn’t a YA protagonist who loudly bemoaned that he was just a normal, ordinary bloke, why was the sparkly vampire so head over heels for him -

Maybe that was what Jon wanted. To play himself up as the sparkly vampire, and Martin as the young girl who had never expected anything better. He couldn’t  _ actually  _ like Martin. It was one of their weird spider mind games. What about Martin was -

Martin’s phone buzzed, and he dived for it. 

**EVIL SPIDER PERSON DNI:** hey martin!!! :) good to hear from you!! I’d love to talk. You’re free at 8pm for dinner right?

**Martin:** Yeah, sure. Your sister (?) said something about a party?

**EVIL SPIDER PERSON DNI:** oh yeah that old thing. Do you like french? We should do La Madeline 

No way was Jon taking him to a secondary location. Martin needed to establish boundaries, keep control of this. Keep control of  _ something _ . 

No evil spider person manipulations today, Martin swore to himself, feeling distinctly as if he had already started being a bit of an idiot. It was hard not to be, when Jon was around. He was already betraying the contact name.

Martin guiltily changed the contact name. Martin always committed to his bad decisions. That was why he waited so long to put Mum in a nursing home. 

**Martin:** what about Wetherspoons? There’s one close to me

Jon took much longer to respond this time, making Martin’s palms sweat. Martin had subsided entirely on Wetherspoons in uni. He felt comfortable there - a cheap chain pub with dead-eyed employees and a family friendly atmosphere. And, maybe more importantly, he had the feeling that Jon had never been there in his life. 

Not that a power play was the point! He wasn’t - he wasn’t that kind of person. This was just self-defense. Protecting himself against spider monsters. Not being a doormat. Making sure that dangerous people couldn’t hurt you. Or, really, anybody at all. That had always been Martin’s speciality. 

**Jon:** ….Wetherspoons?

**Martin:** Yes? I like it and it’s cheap. And it’s always full of drunk people pub crawling which is fun.

**Jon:** that’s not very romantic :c

**Martin:** should it be romantic?

**Martin:** is it a date?

**Jon:** Is it?

**Martin:** do you want it to be?

**Jon:** do you?

Martin’s heart was jumping into his throat. He felt like a teenager. The kind of teenager who had dates, which Martin hadn’t been. He’d only dated as an adult, a strange and awkward half-step between confused men who never quite clicked. No real feelings had ever grown, and nobody resented each other for it. But now, with Jon, his stomach was swooping, his heart was thumping, and his head was spinning. He had known Jon was into him, but he had thought it was some kind of joke, a manipulation…

Jon. Fucking knock-out gorgeous Jonathan Sims. Supermodel hot Jonathan Sims. Who wanted  _ him _ . Funny, earnest, secretly kind Jonathan Sims. Jonathan Sims, who needed Martin to save him from a monster. 

Nobody had ever wanted Martin this badly before. Nobody had ever needed him. Or wanted to need him. 

**Martin:** sure, why not. It’s a date. See you at the Wetherspoons on Pall Mall at 8pm.

**Jon:** :)

Martin let the phone drop from his hand on the comforter, groaning. He was making what was probably the worst mistake of his life. 

And he didn’t even care. 

  
  
  


Eight came sooner than Martin would like. His job wouldn’t start for another two weeks, so he was stuck frantically watching TV to distract himself from the fact that he had a  _ real date  _ for the first time in - at least a year, right? God, maybe a year and a half? Jesus. 

He made the mistake of texting Sasha and Tim about it in a panic, and he had gotten so many messages telling him not to do it (Tim) and asking to collect skin samples (Sasha) that he ended up turning his phone off. He thought friends were supposed to make you less anxious, but maybe their job was to make you feel worse? Was that how friends worked? 

He spent five whole minutes panicking over an outfit - all of his nicest outfits were his work clothing, which might send a weird message - before giving up and just grabbing slacks, a button-up shirt, and his nicest jumper. The jumper probably wasn’t a good idea, even if he didn’t have anything to show off, but it was kind of a comfort item for him. No use putting too much thought in it, just roll out.

When he locked the door to his flat behind him his hand was shaking, and the chilly March wind seemed to piece into his bones. The snow from February was melting into slush, promising new beginnings. Spring was around the corner. But the slush was so dirty and ugly now, you just had to trust that something was growing underneath.

Spring is the time of new love, Martin thought dramatically. Maybe this…

Martin tried very hard not to think any more stupid thoughts on his way to Wetherspoon’s. 

The pub was the same as ever, except this time Martin was afraid that the gummy old men in the corner playing bridge were undercover spider people. He never should have left so much time for Jon to plant spies in here. The waiter could be slipping rat poison into his food. 

But maybe Martin really was a disaster homosexual after all, because the minute he saw Jon uncomfortably perched on a chair at a table in front of the window all thoughts rushed out of his head.

Jon was almost unrecognizable - he would have been unrecognizable, if it wasn’t for the fact that Martin would have recognized him anywhere. Martin would have recognized him with a bag over his head, he would have recognized his shadow on a wall, he would have known him by the curve of his knees. Martin knew him, every inch, and even if everything about him was a lie at least Martin had this. 

Head Archivist Jonathan Sims always had his hair in a prim bun, the implied length always delighting Tim with the subtle rebellion. Eldest Child Jon had his tight curls cascading down to his shoulders, promising volume and softness. Head Archivist Jonathan Sims was never seen outside of slacks and sweater vests, frequently wearing an oversized jacket with patches at the elbows. Sasha had always found it adorably performative, trying to settle into a role that had never quite fit. Eldest Child Jon was dressed in tight jeans that seemed perfectly sculpted to his body, and warm and soft flannel that draped purposefully over his chest. The only thing the same was his eyes, but even that wasn’t right - the Head Archivist was always squinting or sneering, his eyes hidden behind prim little glasses. The Eldest Child’s eyes were big and grey, guileless and warm and childlike. He looked perfectly in place at Wetherspoons. He looked perfectly in place next to Martin. 

Martin held onto the precious few moments when he was observing Jon without Jon knowing. He was sitting straight, subtly uncomfortable, folding a napkin into increasingly tight squares. There was something nervous and fidgety about him. But the moment was lost when he glanced to the side and saw Martin. He perked up immediately, smiling broadly in a way that Martin had never seen from him and waving him over to his table.

Feeling a little like he was walking into the mouth of a snake - or, to be tasteless, a spider’s web - Martin slid into the rickety chair across from Jon. Jon smiled at him, as if Martin was who he had been waiting three months to see, and Martin couldn’t fight the way his heart backflipped. 

“Forgive me for not pulling out your chair,” Jon said teasingly -  _ teasingly _ ! “But I think those old men in the corner would heckle me.”

As usual, Martin’s mouth moved without his input. “You mean they’re not disguised spider people?”

Jon laughed lightly, as if Martin had told a very funny joke. Martin had never noticed before just how  _ blindingly  _ white and straight his teeth were. Had they always been that white? “I’m afraid not. I’m terrified of old people! They’re so ugly and close to death.”

“I don’t know,” Martin said, “I’ve felt pretty close to death a lot lately.”

That sobered Jon. He leaned forward intently, expression serious and intent. “Martin, I know I’ve apologized for what happened, but I feel like I didn’t do it properly. I know it doesn’t mean much coming from me, but I mean it.” His grey eyes glittered, full of remorse. “I never wanted to hurt you. I hate that you were caught up in - in that  _ infighting _ . You didn’t deserve any of that. You deserved a normal, happy workplace. Normal, happy friends. I’m sorry I couldn’t give that to you.”

A lump rose in Martin’s throat. “Jon…”

“But, of course, intentions mean little. I  _ did  _ hurt you, and I accept that.” He reached out a hand, resting it lightly on Martin’s clenched fists on the thin metal table. His eyes stretched open, honest and pleading. “I know I was forced to lie to you. I take full responsibility for that. But I wasn’t lying about my feelings for you. Can we start again?”

Martin opened his mouth, then closed it. Weakly, he asked, “What’s your real name?”

Jon grinned brilliantly. “Jonathan Montague. Scorpio. It’s  _ wonderful  _ to finally make your acquaintance, Martin.” 

Jon squeezed his hand tightly, and Martin felt the lie pierce his heart. Maybe both of the lies. 

“Yeah,” Martin said, “sure.”

Maybe Jon saw something on his face, because he retreated. His expression lost its intensity, returning to something wide-eyed and innocent and young, and he picked up the menu. “I’ve never been here before, so you’ll have to tell me what to get. Is the curry any good? I can’t stand spicy things, I like sweet  _ much  _ better. I know this great french bakery, we have to go sometime -”

Dazed, Martin let the light and airy chatter wash over him. He knew what he wanted - he always just got a burger, it was the cheapest thing on the menu - but that was cheaping out too much for a date, wasn’t it? Ultimate burger sounded more datey. Right? How do you go on a date when the date is at bloody Wetherspoons?

Martin didn’t know how to do this. He didn’t know how to do this at all, much less with the black box that was Jonathan Montague. Which, obviously, wasn’t his real name, but it was probably truer than Jonathan Sims. At least it was a new name for their fresh start that Jon promised, instead of a bitter memory of a man who never existed. 

A fresh start. What bullshit. 

“When’s the waiter coming? I want to ask about the champagne they use for their mimosas.”

“Uh...there’s an app...”

Jon pouted prettily. “I barely know how to use those stupid things. Can you order for us? I’ll have a steak and brandy. What’s your poison, Martin, gin or vodka?”

“I don’t drink very much?”

Jon’s lip twitched - in a smile or a frown, it was hard to tell. “How noble of you.”

As Martin ordered, somehow he ended up insisting on paying - which was hardly impressive, considering the twenty quid price tag, but it made Jon smile and call him a gentleman. Martin was beginning to understand why men did stupid things so they could be called a gentleman by a beautiful person. 

And Jon was deeply beautiful, every second. Most people knew how to be beautiful for pictures or selfies, how to pose when they knew they were being observed. But Jon was casually, effortlessly beautiful, and it never faltered. He would say that the man was practically posing every second, but it was so much more natural than that. He was so flawless and perfect. 

“Do you have mandibles?” Martin blurted, before immediately wishing for death.

Jon blinked at him. “Would you like me to?”

Oh, god. Martin fought an insane blush. “Party! Your sister told me about a party? What kind of party?”

“Yes, that.” Jon sighed, leaning back in his chair and, for all appearances, relaxing. “Mother’s children are always perfect hosts.” He said the line rotely, almost sing-song, as if it had been drilled into his head in primary. Maybe...it had been? Spider primary?! “We’re always hosting some kind of shindig or another. But there’s a big gala we have every year in tribute to Mother. Show our appreciation for her. Like a Mother’s Day party! Everybody who’s anybody’s invited.” Jon perked up. “She invited you, right? I’d love for you to come, it’s so much fun. I love parties and dancing. Dancing with you sounds  _ so  _ magical. I like clubs - I doubt  _ you  _ do, you’re very mature - but I know my way around a good waltz or swing dance.”

“She...did invite me, yeah.” The back of Martin’s neck tingled. Jon was so good at making him feel at ease, so why did he feel so tense? Was it just nerves? “What’s your, uh, real mum like?”

For just a half-second, Jon froze. He looked away, sighing gently. “Died when I was a baby, I’m afraid.”

Wow. Way to fucking put your foot in your mouth, Martin. “I’m...sorry for your loss. I’m glad you have a...uh, similar...figure...in your...life...are you close with your dad?”

“He’s dead too, unfortunately.” Jon shrugged. “Lung cancer when I was two.”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.” Jon smiled weakly at him, clearly putting on a brave face. “I guess that makes us alike, doesn’t it? We were both adrift children.”

“Yeah,” Martin said, aching to touch Jon - in comfort, in solidarity, in kindness. “I guess it does.”

Then their food was slid onto their table, and Martin found to his horror that Jon even  _ ate  _ perfectly. He ate like a princess who had gone through manners school. Was he enrolled in Eton as a baby?  _ Spider-Eton _ ? If someone told Martin that everybody at regular Eton was a spider-person he’d believe them. 

But that seemed to fit with Jon: on the surface level effortlessly regal, somehow always above it all, yet once you scratched that surface he was bubbly and happy and liked to chatter. It was all very straightforward.

Which was weird, because there was  _ nothing  _ straightforward about Jonathan Sims. 

“So what have you been doing these past three months, Martin? _ ” _

“I got a new job,” Martin said hastily, relieved beyond all measure that he didn’t have to admit that he was unemployed on a date. “Assistant librarian at London Library.”

For just a second, a strange expression crossed Jon’s face - was it triumph, or smugness? - before it smoothed into innocent delight. “That’s so interesting! You must be  _ so  _ well read to get that kind of job, Martin.”

“I mean, I suppose?” Martin anxiously shoved a chip into his mouth. “I like to read…”

“You must be so smart,” Jon said, hammering the nail in the coffin of Jonathan Sims. He sipped his brandy, smiling mischievously at Martin. “I could never do such a tough job. The Dewey Decimal System seems like so much to memorize! I’m no good with numbers.”

Martin laughed self-consciously. Nobody in his life had ever called him smart before. Not even Tim and Sasha. Everybody called him kind and nice and helpful, but never smart. “I have a lot of experience from the Magnus Institute. I was a better librarian than an Archive Assistant, I guess.”

“Oh, I never meant any of what I said. You were doing your best, and I’ve always respected that. You’re a hard worker, Martin.” Jon reached a hand across the table, and Martin found himself reaching forward to meet it. It was lithe, a pianist’s fingers, uncalloused and smooth. He moisturized. “Not enough people see that about you.”

Martin’s throat was dry. His head was spinning. He was so confused and turned around - this beautiful person, someone who he’d always admired, whose affection and attention he had always been desperate for. And now it was here, he  _ had  _ it, and he thought Martin was worth it. Nobody had ever…

_ Nobody  _ had ever…

“Jon,” Martin asked, heart thumping in his chest - warning him of danger, danger, danger. “Why do you like me?”

Jon stared at him. 

Not confused, not innocently - just blank. His stormy or warm grey eyes were suddenly flat, like cement. Did not compute. No script available. No lines pre-arranged. He had nothing prepared, no answer. No lie. 

Then the moment was over, and Jon laughed - a harsh, skittering thing, like a spider scrambling across linoleum. “Didn’t I just say so? You’re smart, you’re hardworking -”

“Can you cut the bullshit?”

Jon froze. 

His heart was thumping, but somehow it had turned into the heavy beat of rage instead. Martin’s hands were shaking, and he grabbed a napkin and wiped his mouth. Maybe what he had taken for being flustered and attracted was just pure rage. Maybe that rage was just shame. 

“I understand that I have to win your trust back, Martin, but -”

“Shut up.” At Jon’s flinch, Martin quickly added, “Just - just stop talking, okay? You couldn’t even think of a good lie. You went through all of the effort of spinning some stupid story about how you want to earn forgiveness or whatever, but you couldn’t even bother to think of a reason to pretend to like me.” Something swooped in Martin’s stomach. “Was that stuff about your parents just to get sympathy? That’s so -” Martin found himself at a loss for words for how disgusting it was, and he just grunted in frustration. “Why won’t you stop  _ doing  _ this to me? Is it - is it  _ funny  _ to you?”

“No!” Jon leaned forward, earnest and pleading. Always earnest, always sincere. “Martin, I swear I -”

“Just stop! I’m a - I’m not a toy, or a project, or a grift, Jon! I’m a person, and you’re not treating me like a person!”

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it. Weakly, he said, “I don’t know how to do that.”

“What do you  _ want  _ from me?” Martin cried, and to his shame he felt his throat closing up. “I don’t have anything you want. You’re plying me with all of this bullshit but I just can’t figure out what you want.” Jon opened his mouth, and Martin glared. “You’re about to say ‘I want you’ or whatever, so don’t even bother. I’m not stupid. Nobody - I’m  _ me _ .”

“Martin, there’s no ulterior motive,” Jon said, strained and hesitant. “I’m doing this for…”

“For what? There’s always some motivation or scheme with you.”

“Everybody dates with a motivation, Martin.” He kept on doing that - he kept on repeating Martin’s name. Some cheap tactic to foster intimacy or whatever. What a pick-up artist. “People just...they pull out the chairs and they go to a nice restaurant because that’s what you do. They flirt and tease because they want sex. They want sex because they crave intimacy. They want intimacy because...all humans are lonely. And people are lonely because they’re afraid. There’s no such thing as a relationship without an ulterior motive. I don’t know what you want from me.”

Somehow, all Martin could think of to say was, “But you didn’t pull out my chair. We’re not at a nice restaurant.” 

They stared at each other, and the moment stretched between them. 

“I don’t want to eat you,” Jon said, which was maybe the nicest thing he knew how to say.

For the first time that night, Martin felt as if it was true. In nine months of knowing each other, he knew that Jon had said one true thing to him. 

Annabelle’s words rung through his head. If he could get the real Jon, if he could just  _ find  _ that person, then he could have this. He could save Jon from a life of that loneliness, that fear. Martin just wanted to help. Maybe more importantly, he wanted to be the person who helped Jon. 

If it was selfish...well, maybe Martin and Jon were alike. Maybe they both lied about being good people. Maybe monsters were perfect for each other. 

“When we...next see each other,” Martin said, and he pointedly ignored how Jon’s eyes lit up. “Can we try this again? Without…” He trailed off, uncertain of how to vocalize it. 

“You still want a second date?” Jon asked, painfully hopeful. 

“Why do  _ you  _ want one?” Martin shot back. “You’re just pretending to be attracted to me.”

For just a second, Martin saw something so strange on Jon’s face he thought that he imagined it. It was out of place, borderline nonsensical. 

It looked almost like fear. 

“I like you,” Jon said, rearranging the fear into his increasingly familiar soft expression. “This is what you do when you like someone, isn’t it?”

Martin did not know if he should say yes or no to that. He felt as if he had been given a test he had taken one hundred times, only to see that he no longer knew the answers. Jon had a strange way of taking the most obvious and making it strange and foreign, as if he was an alien desperately trying to study humanity so he could mimic it. 

He...probably was. 

“Yeah, Jon,” Martin said, almost out of pity. Almost out of pity for himself - because wasn’t this dating, this promise of future intimacy, the best way to get Jon’s true self out of him? Maybe he was a hypocrite to grill Jon about ulterior motives. “We can do a second date.”

But when Jon lit up, pure happiness shining through his guileless eyes, it was hard to feel guilty. 

  
  
  


**Jon (Day 3)**

  
  


Jon spent the next morning in bed, exiting only to shove food in his face before retreating back to his bedroom and slamming the door behind him, somewhat dramatically. 

He collapsed back onto his bed, groaning. Let him melt into the bed. Let him sleep for a hundred years, like Sleeping Beauty waiting for her prince. Let him die. 

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that disaster of a date. Maybe he would never recover and waste away in anguish and despair. 

What a mess. What a  _ disaster _ . Jon hadn’t fucked up that badly since he was sixteen in his first gay bar. It was like he was a teenager lying to a girl that they were together forever for the first time. Amateurish! Sloppy! Pathetic! How could he fuck up  _ that bad _ ?

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why the fuck hadn’t he prepared an answer for the ‘why do you like me’ question? It was so basic, such a normal thing to ask. Even if improv wasn’t a specialty of his, Jon always had an answer for every question. Why couldn’t he just think of something on the spot? He had always been able to do that before. 

Jon had tried, a thousand reasons had run through his mind, but he hadn’t been able to say any of them. They were all pathetic and gross. They were too real. Martin didn’t give a shit that Jon admired his tenacity, how brave he was no matter what. The truth had blocked up all of the lies in his throat. 

So he had faltered, and the entire house of cards had fallen down around his ears. He had been doing so well, dazzling him and making him feel special and wanted. That always worked, with anybody. A hot guy like Jon choosing whatever schmuck he was conning that day? Nobody was immune. Much less someone who Jon  _ knew  _ was already half in love with him. It should have been a fucking cakewalk, and instead it crumbled around his ears. 

This is why Jon didn’t ask out people he  _ actually liked _ . Annabelle was going to lord this over him for months. 

Loser! Idiot! Ditz! Lazy! Sloppy! Martin had to hate him! If Jon couldn’t keep up the act then everybody would hate him, and nobody would give him any attention and tell him he was hot, and then he would probably  _ die  _ -

A light knock rapped on the door to his bedroom, and Jon groaned. 

“Go away!”

“I’m respecting your privacy by knocking but I’m coming in anyway,” Agnes said cheerfully, before creaking the door open. Of course it was Agnes. Who else. 

“Leave me alone,” Jon grumbled into his pillow. Bamboo - good for the neck. 

“If you had wanted to be left alone you wouldn’t have told us to let you waste away in your bedroom,” Agnes said, faintly amused. Jon felt a depression in the bed, and lithe and smooth fingers running through his hair and untangling his curls. “What’s wrong, Jon?”

Despite himself, Jon found his anger and frustration crumbling. Heat pricked at his eyes, for a reason that Jon just didn’t understand. “I messed up.”

“Date didn’t go well?” Agnes asked sympathetically. She was tactful enough not to mention that Jon’s dates always went well, no matter what. 

But Jon found himself hesitating instead. Something was thick and heavy in his throat, and what he ended up asking wasn’t what he meant to say. “...Agnes, is there something wrong with me?”

Her fingers stilled in his hair. “Why do you say that?”

He didn’t know. “...Martin said I was just pretending to like him. I...was I? I don’t know anymore.”

“Oh, Jon.” Agnes resumed stroking his hair, soft and gentle. Jon couldn’t count the number of times she used to do this when he was a teenager - never quite knowing how to comfort, uncertain of how to be the friend that he needed, but furiously attacking the problem just so she could figure out how to help him. “This is why I told you to take some time off. You’re getting so wrapped up in the cons you barely even know what you want anymore.”

“I  _ was _ just pretending to be attracted to him,” Jon said quietly, as if it was a secret.

“Isn’t that always the case?”

“Yes. I just...feel differently about Martin then the rest of them. I thought maybe this time, since he’s extracurricular...” Jon sat up, letting Agnes’ fingers fall away with a slight hint of regret. “That’s the difference. This is a personally motivated endeavour. I have to readjust how I approach this problem.”

Agnes pursed her lips. “By extra-curricular you mean seducing someone for fun.”

“I can’t get him to fall in love with me if I can’t perform. But Martin - he’s just like me. He’s a liar and a manipulator too. And it’s a thousand times harder to bullshit a bullshitter.” Jon anxiously chewing on his lip before forcing himself to stop. Nasty habit, chapped his lips. “I have to step this up. I just need to figure out what he wants so badly, he’ll never deny himself it.”

Agnes looked at him, expression pulled tight, and Jon fought the urge to fidget. He was an adult, almost thirty years old, not the teenager who snuck into casinos when she had forbidden him from underage gambling. 

Not that Agnes was the boss of him. She wasn’t. Except...yeah, she was.

“We’ve been best friends since we were kids, Jon,” Agnes said. “Gerry and I know you probably better than you know yourself. Annabelle knows you too. You don’t have to lie to us.”

“I never lie to you,” Jon said crossly. “I can’t get away with it.”

“I just…” Agnes faltered slightly. “I’m just afraid you’re going to do something you’ll regret. Or that you don’t want.”

But Jon was already ignoring her, deep in plotting mode. He had to puzzle out Martin, try to recoup that disastrous date. He just had to give Martin what he wanted. He wanted honesty? Jon could be honest - he just had to be strategic about it. What else?

Jon slid off the bed, already feeling better and back on track. He was always happiest when he had a mission. He smiled at Agnes, the most real smile he had, but it didn’t reassure her. “Thank you, Agnes, I feel much better. You’re a great friend and a good influence.”

“I feel like nobody should have given me two traumatized teengers,” Agnes said blankly. “I think I fucked both of you up.” 

“Nonsense! I’m very well adjusted.” 

“Hm.”

But there was no use asking Agnes for further advice on What Men Wanted - she was bisexual, but she had burned her last boyfriend’s face off, so something told Jon that she wasn’t a good role model for relationships where mutilation wasn’t the goal. He could ask Gerry, also bisexual, but Gerry’s style was to live as authentically to himself at all times and let people love it or leave it. Jon personally had never understood that, and Gerry had never quite understood him, but mutual comprehension wasn’t mandatory for best friends. 

Jon had the feeling that Gerry’s unapologetic self-expression stemmed from a mother who relentlessly tried to mold him into an image of a perfect son, while Jon’s...Jon-ness was from a grandmother who never gave him much attention at all. Maybe. Jon didn’t know, he was too stupid to psychoanalyze people.

That left the obvious choice, and the only choice: Annabelle, who was  _ not  _ attracted to men and yet the unquestionable expert in them. 

“You gotta fuck him.”

Jon had transitioned to the living room, where he saw Annabelle deep in the throes of Super Smash Bros. Bizarre for her to hook up her Wii U to the main television instead of the one in her room, and Jon could only interpret it as an invitation for them to reconvene on next steps. He had grabbed a remote and picked his favorite character (Kirby), easily settling into a fight against Annabelle’s Ganon. 

He was distantly aware that Agnes and Gerry were doing something in the kitchen - talking in low voices, or making soup, or whatever it was a messiah of the eternal flame and a goth did when they hung out without him - but most of his attention was occupied with desperately trying not to get his ass kicked too hard. Annabelle was very good at video games, but that predominantly because she did not have a life. Or, rather, she had a lot of lives, but they were split between arguing on anime forums and mining World of Warcraft addictions. She hosted, like, five online poker sites. 

“Are you sure?” Jon hedged, unwilling to admit she was right. Annabelle leaned to the right, scattering her stack of Cosmo and Vogue. “I usually just, you know, tease it.”

“Yeah, but he’s already suspicious of you. He’s distrustful and manipulative. If all you give him are promises and suggestions, he’s not going to believe you. You gotta commit to this.”

“I guess…” 

Annabelle landed a hit, sending Kirby flying and leaving Jon struggling to recover.

“What’s the big deal? It’s just sex.”

“I don’t need to do that so long as everybody  _ thinks  _ I will,” Jon shot back the very familiar retort. This was hardly the first or the fifth time they had this conversation.

“I thought you liked him. Why are you afraid of commitment?”

“I’m not,” Jon hedged, “it’s just…”

Annabelle glanced at him, arching an eyebrow. “Or are you lying about liking him?”

“I’m not!”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Jon said firmly, as he had Kirby suck up Ganon and copy his goofy little hairstyle. “Nothing, you’re right. He’ll never believe that I’m sincere unless I do this.” 

Jon, of course, had a lot of ways to get around this little thing. A favorite trick was to get the other person black-out drunk and, with some strategic suggestion, convince them that they had done it. Sometimes Jon was more blatant and used the gifts his mother had given him to flat-out rewrite memories. Together with Annabelle’s supernaturally adept Photoshop skills, a nice little bit of blackmail was easy to procure. 

Sometimes Jon wished that he was a woman, since it was usually easier to get straight men to act stupid. On the upside, gay Tories in the closet were a  _ goldmine  _ if you had the right blackmail.

Jon was...a little lazy like that. He didn’t like the effort. It was so dirty and gross anyway. 

It had happened a few times, when he was young and fairly convinced that he just wasn’t doing it right. But eventually Jon had decided he was too good for it - dirty, messy, embarrassing, gross, disgusting, vile - 

Anyway, Martin deserved better than that. It was one thing to do that to shallow idiots who only liked Jon because he was hot and twenty years younger than them and made them seem impressive to their country club friends. Martin cared more than that. Jon wanted to leave what Mother had given him out of this. Martin had suffered enough from it. 

Annabelle was looking at the screen, but out of the corner of her eye she was fixated on Jon. “You can always back out.”

“I would rather  _ die  _ than back out on a bet with you,” Jon hissed, to Annabelle’s growing smirk. “You’d never let me forget it.”

“It’s not my fault you hog Eldest -”

“If you want Eldest then stop being mediocre!”

Ganon kicked Kirby off the stage, his shrill shrieking vanishing in a flash of light, which was answer enough. 

But when Jon threw down the controller out of disgust, cracking his neck and glancing backwards, he saw Agnes and Gerry glancing at Jon and Annabelle with slight frowns. They were in the kitchen, half-hidden by the counter that separated the living area from the kitchen, but Jon couldn’t fight a growing defensiveness. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” Gerry said quickly. “Hey, Jon, want to play Guitar Hero?”

“Excuse you,  _ I’m  _ still working on becoming a professional Smash player,” Annabelle squawked. “Have you seen how toxic that community is? I want a piece of that. I could feed for a year off the receipts.”

“You’re already an egirl Twitch streamer,” Jon droned. “Is nothing enough for you?”

“I don’t get the cat ear headphones,” Agnes said, distressed. “What’s the point?”

“God, I’m surrounded by old people,” Annabelle moaned. “Guitar Hero. Honestly.”

  
  
  


Jon wasn’t a workaholic who didn’t have a life outside of his job. Ask anybody. 

He had tons of hobbies. He enjoyed working out, doing his skincare and haircare routines, shopping, people watching, and letting his boy or girlfriend du jour take him on fancy dates. All of which were fun and relaxing activities. 

Someone might say that everything he did for fun was actually prep work for his job. In fact, someone might say that he really didn’t have a life outside of his job, and that every spare second was spent in perfectionist and obsessive attention to detail towards making sure that his work was perfect. Someone who, hypothetically, understood that Jon’s work was himself. He was his own masterpiece, his best-selling novel, his publication in a famous journal, his poetry collection. Jon’s body and performances were art, and art was work. 

He had friends - the same two friends he’s had since he was fifteen (or twelve, depending on how one interprets meetings beyond time and space). He had a family - a bratty sister and an Eldritch manifestation of fear and trauma that existed in another dimension. He had romantic partners - some of them were still alive, even! That was all any man needed. He had a work-life balance, and anybody who said otherwise was wrong. 

And even if they were right - Eldest child was an accomplishment. It was hard work. You had to work hard if you wanted to stay on top, to really _ get  _ anywhere in life, and Jon was willing to put in the hard work and reap the rewards. Life wasn’t easy. Anybody who really wanted to be successful didn’t waste time with work-life balances. 

So Jon was shopping, and having a great time doing it. After the weird awkwardness with his flatmates he felt the need to escape the flat a bit, and ended up taking a taxi down to Oxford street. No department store escaped Jon. 

Normally Jon would hit up one of his favored high-end boutiques where everyone knew him and his money, or if a specific role as a working class person was on the docket he’d hit up Matalan or something. But, today, Jon found himself drifting towards Harrod’s. Where, maybe, someone like Martin might shop, if he wanted to buy a gift for his mother or indulge. 

One department store was like any other, but there was an odd prickling under Jon’s skin that betrayed how unsettled and tense he was. This department store he had easily been inside a dozen times suddenly looked strange and foreign, all of the advertisements that his eyes slid over suddenly popping out at him.

Giant advertisements flashing white women with long, luxurious blonde hair, biting their lips in a cute pout. Jon tried to imitate it, but just as quickly felt like an idiot. Nearby there was a half-naked man, washboard abs gleaming and defined, eyes arresting. Everything about them oozed hot, hot, hot. Buy product. Be hot. 

Instead of bee-lining for the men’s section like he always did, he found himself wandering around the women’s. He leafed through the pyjamas - sleek and well fitted, satin and lacy. Annabelle always wore sweatpants. Did women like these? Who were they dressing for? Who was seeing them? Any man who sees this side of a woman’s already committed, right? 

No. It wasn’t enough to  _ win _ them, you had to  _ keep  _ them. It was a practically Sisyphian task: fighting nonstop to keep your place in the only place some people had meaning, never capable of truly winning, always in danger of losing it all. 

Jon found himself wandering to the make-up, browsing for his favorite subtle eyeshadow. His eyes caught on the names. Nude lipstick. Naughty Nude eyeshadow palette? Stay Vulnerable eyeshadow by Selena Gomez? Between the Sheets nail polish?!

He grabbed his eyeshadow, named ‘Soft Glam’ in a half-way rational way, and escaped. 

Screw this. Jon escaped to the men’s clothing section, and proceeded to domineer. 

Over the course of two hours he traumatized two salesgirls, churned through two dozen articles of clothing, assembled five different outfits for ten different occasions, searched fruitlessly for patent leather shoes that fit his giant feet before giving up and placing an order through his online speciality retailer, and was subjected to at least ten advertisements of attractive men who looked like they had a gun pointed at their head. 

He looked at himself in the mirror in the changing room, finding himself posing like the washboard ab men outside. The fit was right, the color complemented his skin tone, it was trendy, the accessories made his eyes pop. He was stunning. If this was an essay, his Oxford professors would give him a perfect score. 

He was  _ desirable _ . Like the advertisements, like the makeup, like every promise. Buy product. Buy sex. Be sex.

“I look so fucking ugly,” Jon told the mirror. 

It didn’t say anything back. It didn’t make him feel better.

Jon hated it. 

He bought the clothing anyway, and wore it on the way out. The clerk at the changing room blushed and complemented the look. Jon saw a thread, just a little one, and tugged at it, and he watched her blush deeply. He collected the clothes from the changing clerk. 

Threads spanned the department store - a hundred subtle manipulations, a million subtle sways. This was really more the domain of the Flesh, but Jon was well aware of the Web’s role in forming little marionettes out of people. Nikola had nothing on him.

He could do it too. It wasn’t just the advertisements, he could do it too. There, that middle aged woman in a dripping gold necklace browsing the swimwear. How obvious, those gold threads. 

Jon sidled up to her, smiling brightly, and watched the woman melt. 

“Nice bikini.” He jerked his head at the swimwear she was wearing. The woman was embarrassed that such a hot guy saw her looking at it - was he interested? In  _ her _ ? She had two kids. Or three, whatever, who cared. “I hear it’s in style with uni girls these days, isn’t it?”

Of course it was. It was for such younger women, attractive women. Not nurses with two/three/whatever kids. The woman replaced the bikini on the rack, embarrassed beyond measure. 

Golden, shimmering threads. Jon plucked at one lightly, listening to the song. “I like your necklace. It would look so good on me, don’t you think?”

“Oh, of course?” With no hesitation, the woman unclasped the golden necklace - a gift from her husband - and passed it to him. “You’d look great in this.”

“Thank you so much!” Jon beamed, stuffing it in his pocket. “You’re a doll. Treat yourself tonight. You deserve it.”

“I do deserve it!” the woman enthused. Jon turned around so he could roll his eyes. 

When he exited the department store, laden with bags and a gnawing anxiety he just couldn’t shake, he pulled out the necklace from his pocket. It was light golden chains, with a gemstone pendant. Opal, gleaming and glittering in perfect perpetuity. 

As he inspected it, barely even touching the stone, it suddenly cracked. A lattice of cracks fissured through the stone, distorting its beauty. If Jon squinted, it almost looked like a spiderweb. 

“You’re right, Mother,” Jon said. “It wasn’t really my color.”

He tossed it to the sidewalk, settling for aimlessly wandering the shopping district. He wanted froyo. 

The search for froyo was excruciating, it was uncomfortably chilly, and Jon’s arms were getting tired from his packages. Jon eventually gave up and ducked inside the closest store, letting the bell chime his entrance as he focused on buttoning up his cardigan. 

When he looked up he realized that he had found a used bookstore. Jon faltered, glancing towards the door and wondering if he should leave. There really wasn’t anything interesting in here, right? 

He could do research. That was important, and not a waste of time. That was a great idea, actually. Jon felt much better just by thinking it, and dived into the depths of the bookstore with a practiced elegance. The clothing sagged in his fists like lead weights, but Jon didn’t care. He grew up in bookstores, they were like second skins.

He found himself aiming for the plays, delving into a familiar space. Jon had been a shining star in the Theatre department at Oxford. His professors had cried to see him go. He’d read and seen all of the classics, foundations of the medium, but that wasn’t what he was looking for today. 

Jon crouched down, eyes skimming the shelves and pulling out what he wanted at light speed. Medea. Antigone. Streetcar Named Desire. Faust - ugh, he hated Faust. Romeo and Juliet. Beauty and the Beast adaptation. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf. Raisin in the Sun. Ugh, Taming of the Shrew. Most uncomfortable Shakespeare story. Why was it written. 

Why  _ was  _ it written? Jon flipped it open, leafing through the familiar dialogue. Was Petruchio and Katherine supposed to be romantic? Why? He had to assume that there was a reason, that audiences back then found it cute. Petruchios and Katherines were all over TV today, in their own weird way. Jon was reminded of the makeover scenes in romcoms. Break the nerdy, unattractive girl - tame her into makeup and slinky dresses and clutch purses.

Jon could see the appeal of that, almost. It was good for people to learn how to act properly in society. But why was it romantic? There had to be an appeal to it, he just had to find it. He could crack this code and - and it would be useful, probably. 

Bianca and Lucretio were definitely supposed to be a more desirable couple, Jon eventually puzzled out. Bianca especially was ideal, the kind of demure and sweet person everybody liked. Jon could probably pull off a Bianca. He could probably pull off a Lucretio too, be all assertive and masc and controlling. Maybe. 

Katherine...well, nobody liked people like her. Rude. Brash. Inconsiderate of other people. Socially oblivious. Jon was faintly disgusted by how they ‘broke’ her, but...well, wasn’t Katherine more likable now? Was that really such a bad thing?

Didn’t they make a teen movie off this play?

They did, as it turns out. Jon found it in the used DVD section, and grabbed it. Upon further squinting at its section, he pulled out some other romcoms too. Research took many forms. 

When he left the bookstore, he was practically whistling. There was nothing Jon loved more than research, and obviously watching a ton of 90s romcoms would teach him everything he needed to know about real-world relationships. 

Well, maybe not, but the important thing was that everybody else thought so. All Jon had to do was fake it. Which was easy: everybody else was faking it too. 

They wouldn’t notice it wasn’t real. Nobody ever did. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU CAN'T KILL ME THAT EASILY TED CRUZ.

**Martin (Day 4)**

Sasha and Tim invaded Martin’s home that Monday, disturbing him in his hermitage. 

Okay, in his moping. It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do than mope. His job hadn’t started yet, his flat was already sparkling due to anxiety cleaning, and he was having an intensely difficult time writing poetry that wasn’t about metaphorical Greek theater. Did that make Tim and Sasha the chorus? Whatever. 

So he was watching his favorite comfort film ‘To All The Boys I Loved Before’, snuggled up in a blanket and eating ice cream from the carton even though it was three pm. But something about it just bugged him this time. He found his grumpy not-actually-an-English-major brain picking out all of the weird character stuff, like how Noah Centenio had  _ no  _ reason to be that nice to her and how he wasn’t actually sure mutual distrust and hatred was the best foundation for a relationship. Eventually he gave up, cursing Jon for ruining everything good in his life, before popping in ‘Ocean’s 8’ and submitting himself to the powerful forces of Cate Blanchett. He’d never be her. 

He had just gotten to Anne Hathaway and that knock-out dress when his door rattled and, with no further warning, burst open to reveal a slightly guilty Tim and a Sasha holding a key that Martin did  _ not  _ remember giving her. They froze when they saw him, blanket and ice cream and all, and he froze when they saw him. 

“Have you never heard of knocking?” Martin asked. 

Tim squinted at the Pistachio Almond. “Date go badly, mate?”

Martin stuffed another spoonful in his mouth, glaring at Tim. “It could not be any less your business.”

“Aw, buddy.” Tim dropped on the couch next to him, filching a Jaffa Cake from the container on the coffee table and patting Martin reassuringly on the head. It gave Martin strange emotions. “Come on, let it all out. We can pop open some wine and you can bitch about him. Remember, if he breaks your heart, I have five cousins who are  _ all  _ bodybuilders - well, one owns a tanning salon, but that’s just as good -”

“Yes, yes, you’re too good for him queen, whatever.” Sasha stood in front of the television and dropped a thick manilla folder on the coffee table, upsetting his biscuits and barely avoiding his teapot. “Shut your feminist fantasies off, we have work to do.”

“If you have work to do, then why are you in my flat at three on a Monday?”

“My hours are flexible and my methods are unorthodox.”

“You work in a  _ library _ .” Definitely not even a supernatural library - they had all checked, exhaustively. Martin had heard that Sasha’s interview was...somewhat aggressive, on her part. “Tim, I thought you said that you’d start hiding all of her conspiracy theory fuels.”

“It’s not a conspiracy if they’re really out to get you!” 

But Tim just squirmed guilitily, scratching his neck. “She found ways to get around me. Then she made, like, a really good argument for why she should have them, and it was pretty convincing, so I thought there couldn’t be any harm?”

“Mate,” Martin said sympathetically, “you have it so bad.”

But Sasha, thank god, was paying no attention to them. She took the liberty of shutting off Martin’s television, eliciting a faint cry when he found himself robbed of eight women in sparkly dresses committing acts of girl power, but he was soundly ignored. Sasha kicked off her heels and crouched down on his cheap carpet, riding her skirt up, and began spreading out the statements on the table into a confusing timeline. Each folder was covered in sticky notes, some mysterious Sharpie hieroglyphs, and cute stickers of radioactive warning signs. When Martin squinted at Sasha a little closer, he saw that her beautiful long hair was tied up in a messy bun with a pencil stuck through it, that she was wearing glasses instead of contacts, and that there were serious bags under her eyes. 

Martin glanced at Tim, conveying very clearly ‘aren’t you in charge of making sure she sleeps and doesn’t go insane?’, at which Tim sighed very heavily in a way that effortlessly conveyed ‘I am a strong man but not that strong’. 

That had, of course, always been the arrangement: Tim makes sure Sasha eats, Martin makes sure Jon sleeps. Or, sometimes, that Sasha doesn’t get too zealous in illegal hacking and that Jon doesn’t conveniently forget laws around that when he asks her to do so. Jon had conveniently forgotten a lot of laws, all the time. Hm.

They had basically been more similar people than either of them had seemed to prefer. After what Martin now recognized as some well-placed hints from Jon the entire team had decided that the reason why Jon had gotten promoted over Sasha was a painfully obvious case of sexism, xenophobia, and transphobia. It was why she had started signing off on all of her paperwork with Sasha James instead of Sasha James Martinez. They had all been solidly united in their distaste for the injustice, and of course that was why Jon wasn’t really that qualified! Of course, he  _ had  _ to have worked here before he was promoted, that was just how that worked...even if nobody really remembered him...but that had a good explanation. After all, Jon had said so. 

That being said, Elias - Jonah Magnus - had major ‘homophobic gay’ vibes, which his real birthdate only validated, so the allegations probably weren’t lies. Whatever.

“I’m going to make some tea,” Martin proclaimed, because he had given up on getting rid of them and because Sasha was stretching her timeline onto his carpet. Might as well to be hospitable to the people who habitually broke into his flat. At least Jon respected his privacy. 

Ten minutes, two cups of tea, one cup of tea with a splash of whiskey that was nobody’s business but his own, and a platter of tea biscuits, Martin was finally informed on Sasha’s Great Thesis, Which Explained The Objective Truth Of the Universe. Where had she even  _ gotten  _ that whiteboard? Did Martin own a whiteboard?

“Okay, so there’s, like, anywhere from eleven to fifteen primordial forces of hatred and fear. They live in another dimension and they’re evil and they hate us. I can validate this exactly. You can break them down into separate ur-categories, and then further from that. I split it so far into ‘Interpersonal’, ‘Body’, ‘Nature’, and ‘Unreality’. There’s a great bit of overlap, of course, but that’s the main four categories. Within those, we have -”

And then Sasha was off, and Martin and Tim were left sitting on the sofa, a little dazed. Well, Martin was dazed. Tim looked half bored, half concerned. Martin knew that he had been trying hard to help Sasha move on with her life after their objectively traumatic sacking, but - well, if Martin coped with things by pretending they didn’t exist, and if Tim coped by obsessing over his feelings, then Sasha coped by obsessing over the facts. He really couldn’t decide which one of them was mentally healthy. Tim liked to pretend? Was  _ that  _ healthy?

“Uh, question?” Tim raised a hand, and Sasha broke off in the middle of ranting about racist slaughterhouses to nod at him. Personally, Martin wanted to know more about the clown thing that Sasha had absolutely skipped over. “I get that this is a model constructed as a framework for reality, and as such is inherently inaccurate while still being our best approximation of understanding.” What the fuck, is this what they taught you in college? “But you’re looking at results and drawing not just a hypothesis, but a theory, field, and law. It’s like looking at an apple drop and deciding that a ghost made it fall because a bunch of weird cultists kept on insisting that ghosts were real and nobody had invented arithmetic yet to prove them wrong. What makes you so sure?”

Abruptly, Sasha looked a little sketchy. “Well. I may have talked to Jon.”

That made both Martin and Tim rocket upwards, Tim’s jaw dropping in indignation. “Sasha! All Jon’s text said was that he had caught you breaking into Martin’s flat -”

_ “What _ -”

“ - and taking the confiscated statements! It’s bad enough Martin’s trying to score some with the evil spider in a person suit -”

“ _ Hey! _ ”

“ - now  _ you’re  _ interrogating him?” Weirdly, Tim looked a little betrayed. “Without me?”

That did it. Sasha guilily shuffled her stockinged feet. “If it helps, the guy was useless. I swear, I had no idea that the real Jonathan Montague’s such a ditz. But he did accidentally give me some good information.” She tacked up a page of notes down under the name ‘JONATHAN MONTAGUE’, filled with rushed scribbling. “In the Statements, they seem like isolated incidents. Normal people living their lives, before they take one wrong step and they brush up against forces they can’t understand. This force is typically an object, a person, or a location. But what Jon took for granted was that they all  _ know  _ each other. There’s a Cult of the Lightless Flame, there’s a Darkness Cult, there’s a friendly guy named Oliver who philosophizes about the nature of existence. And Jon hates most of them! It’s organized! Which means that you  _ can  _ organize it! There’s a point, a purpose, a direction! And I think the direction is what that asshole Jonah Magnus wanted. It’s the apocalypse.”

Everybody sat in heavy silence after that, the excited and fervent mood turning dark. If this was a movie or a telly show, this was when brave heroes would rise up and fight against the evil. If evil existed, didn’t good? Or did they live in a world where villains existed, but no heroes? 

That was just too depressing to think about. It didn’t seem right or fair. 

Martin thought of Jon, the genuine human that Martin knew  _ had  _ to exist wrapped up inside that monster. That was what monsters did - turn good people bad. The curse laid by the witch on the prince, turning him into a beast. 

There was no way Martin could fix that. Martin didn’t stop apocalypses, he didn’t rescue princes with the power of love. Especially when the monsters didn’t want to be helped. 

Just to break the silence, Martin asked, “It’s not just Jonah Magnus who wanted to do that, right? Other cults and stuff tried too?”

Sasha nodded fiercely, a curl of hair escaping from her bun. “I saw a Statement about the Everchase like a hundred years ago and another about the Unknowing two hundred years ago, yeah!” She ignored Tim’s flinch, but Martin saw it. But her face softened into something almost kind. “The Web’s never tried. I don’t think they’re interested.”

But that didn’t make sense. 

As Sasha and Tim devolved into a furious debate over how these apocalypse attempts were conducted, Martin couldn’t stop chewing on that. What about this didn’t make sense?

Well, there was the fact that these guys were constantly sabotaging each other. Martin squinted at Sasha’s description of the Unknowing, and how it had been disrupted by...skeleton soldiers? Whatever. So maybe it wasn’t so much evil vs good as evil vs evil. 

And he knew that Jon and his friends stopped them. He had stopped Jonah’s. When Martin had asked (terrified, because he had just seen Jon kill someone) if the Mother of Webs had asked him to do it, he just shrugged. Martin had the sense that Jon really just did what he was told. So there was that. 

But...they couldn’t  _ all  _ foil each other...and those two attempts were long before Jon was born, hopefully.

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Martin said quietly to himself. Sasha and Tim didn’t pay him any mind. “It just…”

“ - but the other Entities would obviously still exist even if one won, so what happens to them in that apocalypse -”

“Well, the Entities aren’t exactly in  _ contact  _ with these people, so who knows if they’re just winging -”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Martin said loudly, and maybe even a bit firmly. Sasha and Tim shut up. “If there’s no good guys, or - or Entities of Peace and Love like you said, and even if they’re constantly trying to mess each other up - isn’t it weird that  _ nobody’ _ s succeeded? At all? If this has been happening for as long as animals have been happening…”

Both Tim and Sasha stared at him. Tim opened his mouth, as if he reflexively wanted to tell Martin why he was wrong but good try though, but he snapped his jaw shut almost as quickly. 

“It’s a good question,” Sasha finally said gruffly - perhaps resentful she hadn’t asked it herself. Martin fought the urge to apologize for saying something almost intelligent. “It’s something I suppose I could bring up with Agnes Montague -”

“You are  _ not  _ doing that -”

“ - or Gerry Keay, I feel like the mother he killed taught him a lot.” She ignored Tim’s offended squawk at that too. “I could confront Jon again, but I kind of got the sense from him that he didn’t think about much besides his hair.”

“He’s a very deep person!” Martin said heatedly. 

Tim shot Martin a look. “Yeah? How?” Martin had no evidence for this claim whatsoever. “Look, does he have a great personality...or is he hot? I think he’s just hot.”

“Like the halo effect in psychology,” Sasha said thoughtfully. “We assume that attractive people are better and more talented people. Is he a good person, Martin? Or is he just hot?”

Martin stammered, obscuring the fact that he did not want to answer. 

“Look,” Tim said, in a way that he probably thought was authoritative. He stood up, fixing both Martin and Sasha with a firm look. “Sasha, I don’t like you looking into this. It’s clearly stressing you out, and it’s dangerous -”

“ _ Excuse  _ you!” Sasha exclaimed. “Since when do you tell me what to do?”

Tim held his hands out placatingly. “Only since you lost all sense of self-preservation! I’m just worried about you. I don’t think it’s healthy for you to spend so much time trying to unravel this.” As Sasha huffed, he turned to Martin. “And Martin, sorry, but you shouldn’t get involved either. Jon’s obviously just grifting you. He’s taking advantage of your kind heart, and he’s going to squeeze you for all you’re worth. You know he has an ulterior motive. Why did you even agree to another date with him?”

Indignant outrage warred with Martin’s guilt. Sure, Jon’s motivation was obscure and weird, but  _ Martin  _ was the one with an ulterior motive here. The only way to save Jon’s humanity was to get him to open up, and the only way to do  _ that  _ in ten stupid days was going on a few dates. Besides, Annabelle said she’d turn him into spiders if he didn’t, and although he didn’t think she was serious he really didn’t want to take any chances.

And why did they think he didn’t know this? It was obvious. Martin was  _ good  _ with people. Just because he hid it and never spoke up about his feelings and never asserted himself and.. 

“Maybe I’m just as curious as Sasha is,” Martin said defensively. He couldn’t exactly admit the stupid bet thing. It was just - no. “I know he’s lying, okay? I’m not an idiot, Tim.”

Tim held up his hands, a ‘who me?’ kind of motion. “I never said that -”

“Then I’m not naive!” Martin snapped. “Just because I’m a - a  _ romantic  _ doesn’t mean I can’t pick up when a hot guy’s playing me, okay? I just - you can’t always control who you like, you know!”

But Sasha just blinked at him, big brown eyes pinning him down like a butterfly under glass. “Why do you like him?”

Did he? Outside of the fact that he was hot, and outside of all of those lies he spun just to make Martin feel special...did he?

“He’s a good person inside,” Martin said slowly, twisting his hands on his lap. “I feel like he just works really hard to hide it. And - and there’s  _ something  _ genuine about him. I just want to figure out what it is.”

He tried not to feel like he was lying. Maybe this was the one lie he could tell better than Jon. Unlike Jon, he was just doing this to win a bet.

It was stupid, and it didn’t make any sense even to Martin. Tim didn’t look happy, arms crossed, but Sasha was nodding thoughtfully. “I guess nobody in the room can really stand a mystery.”

“Maybe that’s why we got hired for a research institute about mysterious phenomena,” Martin said flatly. Especially not when it was a mystery that followed you around. Especially not when it was a mystery that needed your  _ help _ . The kind of help only Martin can give. Nobody had ever needed that before. 

“Look, you two. I respect your decisions and your gut feelings, okay? But respect mine.” Tim scowled harshly, a strange look that contrasted with his usual bright smile. “I have a bad feeling about this.  _ Both  _ of you are jumping head first into a situation you don’t understand. These Entities are dangerous. These  _ people _ are dangerous. I just don’t want you two mixed up in - in apocalyptic rituals and superpowered psychopaths and deranged con men. We don’t know what we’re getting into. Especially with Jon.”

That was when Sasha perked up, and she turned around to gather up a small stack of manila folders. She shoved them at Martin, who cautiously took them and leafed through the labels. If he remembered Sasha’s filing system correctly - the dates ranged from 2000 to 2015, of a wide variety of Entities. 

“I thought you might want them,” Sasha said, almost gently. “It might help. If he won’t tell you the truth...you might as well do some research, right?”

But Tim’s eyes just narrowed. “Those were the Statements Jon was hiding in his office. The ones you pulled out right before that Agnes woman set it on fire.”

“Come on, Tim. Everybody knows that the most valuable thing is what they’re trying to hide.” Sasha seemed to have no idea that she just said something terrifying. “They’re the ones where Jon and his gang show up. You might...ugh, find the McHugh Statement interesting.”

Nothing more needed to be said. Martin found it immediately and started skimming, as Sasha started explaining the contents to Tim. 

The McHugh Statement was marked very firmly with ‘Death’, sending a shiver up Martin’s spine. He read through it quickly, trying firmly to ignore the sucking sensation the Statements always gave him. It was easy to fall in, like a good book, and really feel as if you were  _ there _ . Of course, there was a place you rarely wanted to be. 

It was about a woman named Tova McHugh. A rich philanthropist, she gave a great deal of money to charity and worked hard to help build public works in underdeveloped countries. She founded a dozen charities and contributed to even more. Martin approved highly, until he got to her dark secret - she had been killing people to unnaturally extend her life. All of the philanthropy and charity was just guilt. No, not guilt - an excuse, used to justify her life. 

She lived this awful and disgusting way until she met a man. She described him with - a frankly strange amount of detail. He was drop dead stunning, apparently. Tight red trousers and a sleeveless black turtleneck, complementing a silken white jacket. It was an outfit that Martin recognized. He had been sitting at the bar next to her at an exclusive nightclub, and they struck up an easy conversation. He was so easy to talk to, so bright and charming and fun. Conversation flowed like water, smoothed by drinks and casual flirting, and from there a casual relationship formed. A true gentleman, he didn’t even seem to value her for her body - just her mind, always gone unappreciated. He was somehow perfect, without being too good to be true. 

In fact, she liked him so much that she added him to her will. It just seemed the right thing to do, even as her lawyers and family argued with her. John Edwards was the most trustworthy person she had ever met. 

The story ended unsatisfactorily. It ended with her just bragging - about her perfect life, her gorgeous and thoughtful boyfriend, about the bad decisions she had made and how she would make them again. She wasn’t proud, but she had fooled herself into thinking there was nothing to be done about it. 

“Hm,” Martin said. 

“Yeah,” Sasha agreed, as Tim looked incredibly disgusted. “I have no idea how Jon...anyway. But check the follow-up.”

“He must have a strong stomach,” Tim scoffed.

The follow-up, researched by a “Michael Shelley”, noted that the woman died soon afterwards. Unknown causes. Her partner inherited all of her money, and could not be contacted for comments. The researcher didn’t seem too concerned about this. 

“So, like, he definitely killed her,” Tim said. 

“They’re all like that,” Sasha said triumphantly. “A person who exploits others, hurts them, or is even an Avatar. There’s this one about a cult leader - anyway. Jon shows up, playing some random role - boyfriend frequently, but brother or son or friend too - and before you know it  _ someone’s  _ dead or gone and Jon skips town much better off.”

“You got a secret trust fund, Martin?” Tim joked. It wasn’t very funny.

“This one doesn’t, but a lot of them feature a man with black hair with a real grudge against certain books, or a mysterious red-haired woman. Gertrude has a lot to say about  _ her _ . I’m guessing Jon plays front man and his friends play back-up. I feel like there’s probably a fourth, but I’ve never met her.”

“Yeah you have,” Martin said dully. “The girl at the bar. Annabelle Cane. Eldest daughter of spiders.”

Sasha paused a beat, before scrambling to write that down on the white board. “Check out the Nunis Statement, it’s one of the rare appearances of all of them. I  _ knew  _ there had to be another one, that had to be the Black woman in Italy!”

Andrea Nunis, thankfully, did not seem to be a terrible person. She was just a compulsive traveller, normally making her way alone but sometimes travelling with a friend. It was interesting in the sense that Martin loved hearing about people’s lives and personalities, but strictly not that supernatural. When Martin skipped to the end he saw something about a lonely crowd and a mother, which - relatable, but nothing that couldn’t really be explained by a panic attack. 

Except for the cafe, and the strange man who approached Andrea. She had noticed him before he approached her, caught by the sound of English and the obvious tourists. 

They were all dressed casually - one white guy with badly dyed hair in a Hawaiian shirt, a white woman with fiery red hair wearing a bikini top and and a long, almost translucent skirt. There was a stunningly gorgeous Black guy with nicer hair than hers wearing a polo shirt and board shorts, and a Black woman sitting close to him with box braids and a one-piece with shorts. They were obviously about to head to the beach - definitely a group of spring breaking college students, the youngest girl looking barely out of high school. 

The white guy saw her first. He just started staring at her. Andrea remembered feeling a little flattered - well, she would have been more flattered if it was the other guy, let’s be real - but also a little creeped out. Even more creeped out, when the white woman started staring at her too. Then the other guy. Then the last girl, until none of them were talking or laughing, and they were all just staring at her. When they spoke again, it was so quiet that Andrea could hear what they were saying. 

“Seriously?” the younger girl asked. “We’re on vacation. In  _ Italy _ . Who cares.”

“Same,” the hot guy said, sipping expensive looking wine. “Drop it, I’m not working today.”

“We can’t just leave her,” the redhead said. 

The dye job sighed, standing up. “I’ll do it. Don’t worry, Jon, you don’t have to flirt with anyone today. I’ll save you.”

“My hero,” Jon said dryly. 

Everything after that was far more important to Andrea than the spring breakers having a curious conversation. What the dye job said about her mother, about staying safe - it had been strange, but Andrea knew it had saved her life. 

And Martin knew that they had done it for nothing in return - simply because they could not leave her. 

“They help people,” Martin said quietly, realizing as he said it. “They don’t steal from those who can’t afford it, and they don’t hurt people who didn’t do anything wrong. They’re actively going out of their way to help someone here.” Well, Gerry and Agnes did, but still..” 

“Call me crazy,” Tim panned, “but I’m of the radical school of thought that you shouldn’t hurt people at all. A gang of - what, vigilantes? - aren’t superheroes, they’re super-powered maniacs with an M.O. No matter how many lost tourists they give directions to, Agnes murdered at least thirty people and Gerry committed matricide. It sounds like you’re safe so long as they don’t set their sights on you.”

“And they’ve definitely set their sights on you,” Sasha said gently, or as gently as she could. “But it still doesn’t explain  _ why _ .”

That was the question, so persistently: why, why, why?

Why had Annabelle targeted Martin - both for her stupid bet, and for the subject of her weirdly intense hatred? And Jon - the cover story of wanting to date him was cheap and weak. 

But...Annabelle  _ hated  _ Martin (which was terrifying). If she really didn’t want Martin and Jon to date, if she disagreed with whatever con he was pulling, then why was she backing him up on the lie? Jon and Annabelle seemed close, and they all worked as a team - why would Jon run a con that Annabelle so obviously hated? Then there was all of that about not telling Jon about the bet, which just made everything else so much more confusing…

Martin’s head was swimming. He didn’t know the point of the bet. He didn’t know the point of Jon’s weird crusade for justice, and Martin’s relationship to that. He didn’t know why Annabelle hated him - it couldn’t have been for the reason she gave. 

And, maybe more than anything else, Martin didn’t know  _ why him _ . 

And that bothered him most of all. 

  
  
  


Actually, Martin would like to retract that statement. He very quickly had bigger problems. 

After he finally shoved Tim and Sasha out of his flat, in the middle of their fervent argument about if it was ethical to steal from people if they were jerks, Martin finally took five minutes to raid his fridge for wine and find that, actually, he was out of wine. Because of the last time he had to think about this. More accurately, because of his terrible date with Jon. Great.

He hadn’t missed the surreptitious looks Sasha and Tim had been throwing at each other as Martin weakly tried to argue his case that Jon wasn’t literally Satan. They didn’t believe him, because Martin was...either an idiot or a precious small soft bean, and he could already tell that they were going to stick their noses in this. 

Especially Tim. It was pretty cute and wholesome how much Tim cared, how he was always there to give a shoulder to cry on or walk you home from work or threaten to take care of that guy at the bar for you, but sometimes it was overwhelming. And sometimes he acted before he thought. Sasha was pretty good at getting him to slow down, but when Sasha had her jaws sunk into a mystery only Tim was remotely effective at getting her to think things through. They were a good team. 

Martin had no place or role in that dynamic, so he didn’t really know why they kept hanging out with him, but there was no use worrying about it. Reality was reality. Especially when it sucked. Maybe only when it sucked. 

That was how Martin ended up stumbling through Aldi in a haze, half-awake and half-asleep, barely cognizant of himself or of reality as a whole. His brain held only two thoughts: obtain wine, obtain more ice cream.

He really must have been out of it, because he found himself wandering through the small clothing section. He rolled his eyes when he saw the usual advertisements, all bland looking women and rippling pecs, and resisted the urge to linger a little longer over the pecs before finding the wine aisle. Let’s buy two, just in case. Self-care. 

It was about seven - Sasha and Tim had invaded his life around three, and it took three hours to get them to leave and stop bringing distressing questions into his home. Not quite peak time to do your grocery shopping, but the store was still fairly swelled with housewives pulling squalling children and young roommates absentmindedly shoving mountains of crisps into their baskets. Martin couldn’t help but feel a little disconnected from the people around him - the families that he was afraid he would never have, the friends and families who did something so simple as grocery shopping together. 

Had Martin ever gone grocery shopping with someone? Maybe as a child, before secondary, when his Mum still shopped. But once he hit secondary it was his job to shop for the family. Mum just wasn’t well enough. And although Martin had lived for a long time with roommates - his flat was the first time he’d ever lived on his own - they had never shared something as simple as chores. 

It was strange, to see everything that he felt as if he  _ should  _ have and feel so piercingly jealous. Didn’t he deserve this, too? Why did they get it, but Martin didn’t?

Where had this bitterness come from? Somewhere along the way Martin had given up. His romantic dreams had turned to fantasies, and his wishes for fantasies had turned into a dream that his heart made. Martin never chased what he wanted anymore - he just assumed that he couldn’t have it. But it just seemed like too much trouble now. All people ever did was stumble around awkwardly and hurt each other. Or maybe that was just Martin, and everyone else manged to connect with people just fine. 

Even Tim and Sasha…

It wasn’t until he saw a figure out of the corner of his vision brushing past him that he realized that he had been staring at this bottle of wine for a weird amount of time, and he quickly moved to put it back. Way to block up the aisle, Martin, very conscientious of you -

“Do you have a light?”

In a stunning act of social awkwardness, Martin jumped almost a foot in the air before awkwardly jittering towards the figure. He was all ready to protest that no, he didn’t smoke, also he didn’t have any money goodbye now, before he saw the figure.

A tall, willowy woman. In a white peasant blouse and a wrapped orange skirt. Her hair was fiery red, drifting down in smooth waves to the small of her back, and she was smiling pleasantly at him. She couldn’t have been older than her late twenties, with clear skin free of imperfections or wrinkles or flesh. 

Martin turned sharply on his heel and abandoned his basket so he could walk casually in the opposite direction as quickly as humanly possible. He was almost out of the aisle when another man stepped out from the corner, head firmly in a book and looking completely nonthreatening despite the fact that he was none other than Gerard Keay. 

Well. Martin was going to get  _ super  _ murdered!

“Don’t look so nervous,” Agnes Montague said. “We can smell fear.”

In no universe did that not cause more fear. Martin did not quite know how to explain this to the Messiah of the Eternal Flame, according to Sasha and her disturbing research. He didn’t know what was worse: leading a cult, or massacring the cult. Or, in the case of Gerard Keay, what was worse: spending his childhood running around with a psychopathic Leitner collector, or murdering her. 

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is, Agnes,” Gerry said, bored. He didn’t look up from his book. “Take a walk with us, Martin.”

“Uh,” Martin forced out, sweating bullets. “Do I have a -”

“Nope. Come on, we aren’t going to hurt you.”

“Consider this a job interview,” Agnes said brightly, stepping forward until she was hovering either politely or menacingly at Martin’s elbow. “Except if you fail there might be arson involved.”

“You’ve never had a job or a job interview, Agnes,” Gerry said, still bored, and started walking away from the wine. Martin was forced to follow him, heart thumping in his chest, trying to ignore how the faint heat he felt from Agnes’ position near his elbow. 

Martin expected to be directed out of the store so he could be ganked in private, but instead Gerry just meandered to the produce aisle. Martin understood the logic - the aisles were bigger, it was less busy, and you were far less likely to run into people or be overheard. He also couldn’t decide if it was better or worse to be murdered in the pasta aisle or the produce aisle. At least the coroners would think he was healthy?

“Uh,” Martin finally said, the awkward silence almost worse than the murderers, “am I allowed to ask questions?”

“Wasn’t that a question?” Gerry stopped walking, instead leaning casually against the long row of binned apples and stashing his book in his bag. Agnes settled down next to Martin, one elbow propped on what looked like a short row of pomegranate juice with her body angled towards him. It was like they were middle aged women with bored children trailing behind them catching up in the aisles, except the bored child was a terrified adult. “But sure, whatever.”

“Great. Uh...what are you all doing here?”

“Buying groceries?” Gerry shrugged at him. “What else do people do in a grocery store?”

“There’s the weekly specials,” Agnes volunteered. “I love those. I’m part of several Facebook groups tracking the best deals -”

“You are  _ such  _ an old woman -”

“Why am I involved in your errands?” Martin cut in, which he would have been too terrified to even consider if it wasn’t for the fact that their bickering was ridiculously evocative of Sasha and Tim’s endless rounds of arguments. There was a particular style about them - never malicious, always open. He tried not to be jealous of the - again, murderers! This was getting ridiculous. “What do you want?”

“Just to make it clear,” Gerry said, reaching behind him and grabbing a ruby red apple seemingly at random. “This isn’t a shovel talk. Jon’s a big boy and can make his own decisions, and it’s not our job to dictate those for him.”

“Or Annabelle’s…” Agnes muttered softly. 

Gerry grimaced. “She has a reason for what she’s doing, we just don’t know it yet. She’d never hurt him. On purpose.” He tossed the apple lightly up and down in the air. “Just like I’m sure you’d never hurt him, Martin.”

“On purpose,” Agnes added helpfully. 

“It’s pretty funny how you guys think I’m capable of hurting a superpowered uber-wealthy Spider King,” Martin said. “And for something that’s not a shovel talk, it’s already sounding a lot like a shovel talk.” As Martin spoke, he found himself growing more and more pissed off. What  _ was  _ this? “I’m the one afraid for  _ my  _ life here. You’re the ones who sent my entire life spinning out of control. Annabelle already told me to get involved with Jon  _ and  _ threatened me if I did so. Now I’m the target of you people’s latest con and nobody has the decency to even tell me  _ why _ . What did I ever do to you guys that makes you hate me so much?”

“You’re remarkably self-centered, aren’t you,” Agnes said, almost impressed. It was the first time anybody had  _ ever  _ said that about him. “Have you ever considered that you were swept up in the wake of Jon’s own confused desires?”

“What the fuck?”

“Martin Blackwood,” Gerry said seriously, and something about his voice stopped Martin short. He held out the apple, shining and clean, to Martin. “Do you want Jonathan Montague?”

The question rung a bell in him, clear and bright. He couldn’t have lied, even if he wanted to. He should have equivocated, demurred, say anything other than the raw truth in front of the man’s siblings who hated him.

“Yes,” Martin said, “more than anything.”

As with Annabelle, both of them looked satisfied. Neither of them looked happy. 

Agnes placed a friendly hand on Martin’s back, as if they were friends or partners. But her hand ran hot, and although it didn’t burn Martin had to fight not to twist against the uncomfortably hot sensation through his shirt. 

“You make Jon happy. Or, at least, I think you could. If you let him, and if he lets you. Go on those dates he’s so excited about, Martin, make him happy.” Gerry tilted his chin up, eyes glinting in the harsh fluorescent lighting, and he took a deep bite out of the apple. “But if you  _ touch  _ him beyond kissing we will punish you with extreme prejudice. And we are the experts in punishing people.”

Well. At least the boundaries were clear. It was almost nice to have something in this whole mess be straight forward: if your rating goes above PG, you will get super mega murdered. Martin appreciated the clarity. 

Maybe that was why Martin was honest - the two monsters had expressed what they wanted to express, and Martin got the message. There was just one thing that was bothering him, and if anybody could answer - if anybody would - it was them. 

“I just - I just don’t understand,” Martin said weakly. “I don’t know why he’s doing this, or why  _ you’re  _ doing this, or Annabelle - why me? Why me?”

“Sometimes, Martin, the simplest answer is the correct one.” Agnes leaned in, hot breath brushing the shell of his ear. “Why would one man choose to pursue you when you have nothing to offer him, when his family doesn’t want him to, when you’re from two different worlds? When it doesn’t make any sense?”

What, in this world, didn’t make sense?

“Oh,” Martin said.

“Great! Glad we’re all in agreement, then.” Agnes beamed widely, stepping away and grabbing a bottle off the shelf. She shook it before offering it to Martin. “Pomegranate juice?”

“Uh. Thanks.” 

He took it.

“Welp,” Gerry said, pulling out his book and cracking it open as if he hadn’t just threatened to murder Martin, “that was fun, but Jon needs his stupid whey powder again and Annabelle’s going to bitch if we don’t buy her Pocky. Come on, Agnes, let’s run.”

“Wish I could say it was nice to meet you, Martin!” Agnes said cheerfully, clasping her hands behind her back. “Bye now!”

And then they walked off, just as casually as they had come, and Martin made the executive decision to abandon his basket and abandon Aldi’s as quickly as possible, somehow still clutching the juice.

But not before getting his wine. He had priorities. 

  
  
  


**Jon (Day 5)**

**Jon:** soooo where do you want to go this time?

Please don’t say Wetherspoons. Please don’t say Wetherspoons. Please -

**Martin:** uh. I dunno. What are your favorite places? 

Well, Jon had a lot of favorite places. The ballet, the orchestra, the symphony, historical sites, curated gardens. Those were the most common places he went early in the dating process - the first date was always a pub or a restaurant. Sometimes his audience was more middle class, and footy games were a guaranteed hit with the men there. Sometimes, if they were rushing it…

**Jon:** we could just do my place.

Jon’s heartbeat thumped in his ears, his heart lurching in fe - excitement, but he didn’t have long to wait. Martin’s response was almost immediate. 

**Martin:** Haha that’s alright maybe not right now!!! I really like the botanical gardens do you want to do that?

Jon had never been to the botanical gardens and the concept was fairly new to him. 

**Jon:** I’d LOVE to! At 7 tonight?

**Martin:** See you there!

**Jon:** <3

Jon dropped the phone on his oak desk, stood up, and immediately bee-lined for Annabelle’s room next door. He knocked sharply on the door, waited for her to yell at him to go away, and then let himself in.

She, as usual, was crouched in a truly improbable posture in her bright pink gaming chair. She was dwarfed by her rig, and on the four monitors Jon could see several forums, Reddit, the deepweb, and Overwatch. If Jon squinted and let his eyes glisten black he could see two more bristly black arms clicking away at the keyboards and terrorizing internet nerds, but when he let his vision relax the sight faded away. 

“I told you to go away, I’m pwning noobs.”

“I...do people still say that?” Jon felt slightly distressed by this insight into the online mind. “Isn’t that rather 2008?”

“Yes, but pogchamp guy’s a racist and I refuse to platform him.” Annabelle twisted around in her seat, taking off her pastel cat ear headphones and scowling at him. “Seriously, unless this is about you and Martin get out of my room.”

“I - yes?” Jon said, feeling faintly flabbergasted. “Why are you so interested in my private love life -”

“Because I’m a good sister and I love you.”

“You’re only one of those things.”

“This is about Martin’s ‘that’s for later’ comment, right?” Annabelle arched an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair like Dr. No. She even grabbed one of her Porgs to put on her lap and stroke. “Tell Dr. Cane everything.”

“I - how did you even know -”

“I’m psychic,” Annabelle said, closing out of a spyware program on her computer without turning around. “What’s the issue? You know the concept of Netflix and chill. You know when’s the right date to put out. This is hardly your first time doing this, Jonathan.”

She was right. He did. Jon sat down on her bed, crinkling the shiny pink sheets and blinking at her wall shelf of gashapon figures. He didn’t know why he was stressed out by this. “First date if it’s tempestuous and passionate. Second date almost never, unless they initiate and it’s in character for my role. Third date is usually the sweet spot.”

“See? It’s like a formula. Put in x, you get y each time.”Annabelle stroked her Porg thoughtfully. “I normally do the first date, to be honest, but that’s just me not caring. Do you need tips? Because -”

“Martin wants honesty,” Jon cut in, because he had heard  _ more  _ than enough of Annabelle’s ridiculously ambivalent sex life for three lifetimes. “But I don’t know how to give it to him. And I’m afraid that I can’t give honesty  _ and _ …” Jon trailed off helplessly. “You know.”

“It’s hilarious how you refuse to even  _ say  _ the word sex,” Annabelle said, somehow meaningfully. “But come on, Jon. You said it yourself. Martin’s just as much of a bullshitter as you are. That’s what they all say, right? That they want honesty, the true you, the authentic self. But nobody really does. God, who wants to deal with  _ that _ ?”

“I know,” Jon said feelingly. “I’ve seen dozens of humans drop those polite society masks, and every single one of them was so ugly and desperate inside. It’s not attractive at all.”

“People want two things, Jon.” Annabelle held up one finger. “To feel loved.” She put up another one. “And to be accepted. Everybody just wants to fit in, be like everybody else. Everybody feels like they’re in this great race to the finish line, and they’re afraid everybody else is already ahead of them. Especially young people like us. I mean, maybe just me -”

“I’m  _ literally  _ twenty nine,” Jon said defensively. 

“Yeah, you only got about six good years left in you,” Annabelle said, and Jon grunted in concession to the point. 

“Martin’s just the same,” Annabelle said. “He wants to be loved and accepted for who he is. He’s assuming you want the same. But he’s working under the misapprehension that you think and feel like a human being does. We’re different, Jon.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that.” In fact, it had been Jon who told her that, a very long time ago when she was a scared college student and he was the adult who held all of the answers. He must have seemed amazing, back then. “I can fake honesty all I want, he always catches me out. I’ll never satisfy him.”

Annabelle’s mouth thinned out. “You never feel good enough for him, do you?”

“How can I?” Jon asked miserably. “He’s perfect. I’m not, no matter how much I pretend.”

“Don’t you know how much he weighs?”

“Annabelle!” Jon snapped, and Annabelle seemed to quickly sense that she had crossed a line. “Not everything is about appearances!”

“Rich of  _ you _ to say that,” she said, and Jon had to concede the point. But Annabelle didn’t look any happier. Her eyebrow ticked slightly. It confused and worried Jon - normally he could read her down to her microexpression, but she had almost been confusing him lately. “You’ll never be good enough for him. You can be anyone, Jon, live a thousand lives and sacrifice a thousand more to Mother. But what Martin Blackwood wants is a human, and you will  _ never  _ be able to give that to him.”

It was true. It was just something Jon didn’t like to admit. But that was most things. 

“I like him anyway,” Jon said, looking at the floor, almost ashamed. 

“Why! For what reason?” If Jon didn’t know any better, he’d say that Annabelle almost sounded frustrated. Which made no sense - wasn’t she helping him do this? “All he does is take from you!” 

“Some things in this world don’t make any sense, Annabelle,” Jon said quietly. 

The sentence left an empty silence lingering between them, a discomfort that just couldn’t be lifted. Jon hated this - that he no longer understood Annabelle, and that Annabelle didn’t seem to understand him. He hated that Agnes and Gerry sometimes stopped talking when he walked in the room, and that they were both shooting him weird looks. 

Nobody was really themselves with their family. Every conversation evoked a lifetime; every interaction desperate to fill a role of sister or brother or friend. Agnes had spent the last fourteen years of her life desperately trying to balance the role of a friend with the role of a caretaker to two traumatized teenagers. Gerry had lived his entire life continuously isolated from almost everyone else, and he was still shakily imitating what a friend or brother or a person was from books. Annabelle...saying it with every ounce of the ocean of affection he had for her...was a sociopath and held no interest in not being a sociopath. 

But with them, Jon always felt as if he could be the closest to who ‘Jon’ was. He never felt lonely, when he was with them. Maybe it was the only time. 

“You’re a monster, Jon,” Annabelle said simply, stating a fact that was so self-evident and clear it was like saying that water was wet. “How do you show Martin a human that he will accept?”

And, obviously, there was only one answer to that. 

Jon smiled at her, his chest already lightening. It was good to have a clear answer, a line from A to B. Jon really wasn’t that smart, so he appreciated having a clear outline and a clear goal to leap head-first into. 

It was actions, not words, that really mattered here.

“Thanks, Annabelle,” Jon said warmly. “You’re a good sister.”

“No problem,” Annabelle said. “Here to help.” 

  
  
  
  


Botanical gardens had plants, as it turned out.

Jon met Martin at the entrance. He decided to evoke the first time Martin had looked upon him as the Eldest Child instead of Jonathan Sims, so he was dressed in his favorite outfit - tight red trousers, a sleeveless black turtleneck, and his silk white jacket. His hair was tied up in a ponytail, a concession to the outside activity, and he had shoved his feet in boots. He really hoped that no dirt got on his jacket. He loved it, but white silk was  _ hell  _ to keep clean sometimes. He knew Agnes and Gerry thought it was one of his superpowers that he kept it that clean - in reality, he was just very fussy. Some guys thought it was cute.

Martin came ten minutes later, looking predictably a little pissed off that Jon got there first. It was so adorable how he kept trying to out-play Jon. It was like a child reading Baby’s First Chess Book going up against Kasparov. Jon had professional dignity. 

He was wearing an outfit that...clearly showed that he had put almost no thought into it. It was practically his outfit from  _ last  _ time; with a green jumper instead of an earthy brown one. Which was also practically the same as his work outfit. Jon despaired. What was with men and never having more than one outfit? It was like they were cartoon characters!

If -  _ when  _ \- they got together Jon would have to fix...all of that. He had never exactly specified what would happen after Jon won the bet, but hopefully he’d get a few months out of Martin before he lost interest and dropped him. Or before Martin lost interest. That one was more likely, really. Jon’s longest relationship, in a life of almost nonstop relationships since he was eighteen, had been about six months, so he had little frame of reference. What did you do with a boyfriend after six months? Let him into your house? Jon didn’t want to do that, then they’d meet Annabelle. She always hated all of his partners.

“Jon!”

Fuck, he zoned out. Jon beamed brightly, waving as Martin easily walked up to him. He withdrew two tickets from his pocket, holding out one to Martin. “Already got our tickets. They gave us a map too, actually, but I’m no good at directions. Can you hold it? What would you like to see first? I’m interested in the flower pressing ceremony, actually, I wonder if it’s like the one I saw in Japan -  _ excellent  _ sushi, they say you can eat it off a woman’s -”

“Jon.” 

Okay, the happy babbling didn’t work. Normally people liked pep on dates. But Martin was just looking serious, and a little tired, both of his hands stuck in pockets and slouching a little. You didn’t slouch on  _ dates _ . This guy didn’t know anything. 

“Yes?” Jon asked, wrangling his nervousness down and keeping the tremor out of his voice. He arranged his face into an innocently confused expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Can we lay down some ground rules first, please?”

The wind blew, hitting Jon’s exposed skin like a thousand cuts. The March sunlight hadn’t quite made an appearance, the cold of February still sluggishly lingering. And Martin just stared at him, tired but resolute, as if he just wouldn’t budge.

Jon liked that in a man.

“Did I do anything wrong?”

“Yes, obviously.” Shit! People  _ always  _ comforted him when he looked sad and said that. “You spent every minute last time spinning me BS. I like you, Jon, really. But can we not do that this time?”

Annabelle had been right. Jon settled on resolute too, giving Martin the mirror he wanted. Bravery, like Martin wanted to see. “I’m...not used to that. But I can try, I suppose. What do you want to know?”

“...let’s go in.”

The Gardens themselves were not overly crowded. It was a smaller one, newly built and still under development. According to the map, it was split up in different biomes - a desert here, the tropics there, natural English foliage here. Japanese and Indian trees brushed barks, and in the center a flowerbed bloomed. Bees and butterflies flittered from flower to flower, working industriously as their queen and instinct demanded.

It was a little warmer in the gardens, which Jon appreciated. Still, it was chilly enough that Jon made a show of drifting closer, angling his body until Martin got the message and let Jon loop his arm through his. He was very anxious about it, almost leaning away from Jon. Was that too soon? Should he play it more awkward? It  _ was  _ awkward. Jon didn’t really do awkward.

Jon wasn’t brave.

“Desert?” Martin asked, peering at the map. “Or the flowers?”

“Wherever you -” Martin shot him a quailing look. “Desert? Cacti are fun.”

“Is fun the word people normally use for cacti?”

“I’m hardly normal.”

Martin snorted. “That’s true.” Despite himself, Jon looked away a little to fight the flush. Martin must have noticed, because he quickly added, “I’m hardly normal either! I mean, I’ve always pretended, but I was never any good at it. I can hardly judge, you know?”

“Everybody judges,” Jon said shortly, and stared at a desert rock. An anole flicked its tongue on it, sunning itself as best as it could. “What kind of lizard is that? Euch, how gross.”

“Uh.” Martin fumbled for the pamphlet, leafing through it, before realizing that this wasn’t a zoo and the animals were wild. “I think - maybe an anole? See, it was one of those - red things.”

Dulap. “Wow, animals are so weird. Do the lady lizards really find that thing attractive?” 

“I - you know, they’re different species, so we can hardly judge. I guess what makes sense to them doesn’t always make sense to us.” Martin smiled wanly at Jon, who matched it with an extra injected dose of optimism and hope. “You know, ah, courting rituals and all that.”

“I never understood those,” Jon complained. He took the opportunity to lean a little closer against Martin, prompting a freeze but a slow relaxing. Typical among people who didn’t date very often. “Birds should just stick to the pretty colors. Birdsong’s nice and all, but it’s just so  _ loud _ .”

Martin glanced at him, amused. Score. “Birds eat spiders, you know.”

“The Goliath bird-eating tarantula eats birds,” Jon said blankly. 

They stared at each other. The Saguaro cactus loomed. 

“You know,” Martin said finally, leading them further down the path until they found the soft bloom of the desert flowers. They were kind of scrubby and pale looking. “I have an idea. I wanted your, uh, thoughts on it.”

What Jon wanted absolutely did  _ not  _ matter, but sure. “Hit me.”

“How about I ask you a question, and you answer it  _ honestly _ , and you do the same for me.” Martin smiled at him nervously, unaware that he was mimicking Ms. Sasha James Martinez. How odd. Maybe they had colluded on this. No, Sasha wasn’t subtle. “Does that sound good?”

Jon’s reflexive first thought was that it didn’t sound good at all. But...this was an efficient way to achieve the goal they were both working towards. Like those, what, 32 questions to make you fall in love? Same principle. How should he respond to ‘do you want to be famous?’. Jon had impersonated a movie star before, did that count? If Jon lied, would Martin know?

He could afford to give a few things away. Probably. 

Maybe he just wanted Martin to know.

“Sure,” Jon said, keeping the trepidation off his face. By the way Martin’s mouth tightened slightly, he had the feeling he hadn’t done a very good job. “You go first?”

“Right.” A bee lingered over a flower and, finding very little, moved on. “Where did you grow up?”

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Way to hit straight for the worst question. Boring. Nobody  _ ever  _ asked what cologne he was wearing (Marc Jacobs). “Bournemouth,” Jon said grudgingly. “Where did  _ you  _ grow up?”

“Just outside of Devon, a real terrible little village - hey, wait, that was no detail at all! You just gave a name!”

“If you wanted more than a name then that can be your next question.”

“You’re  _ pedantic _ ,” Martin said, exasperated, triumphant. As if he had found something true about Jon, and was holding it up like a grimy talisman. “Get into the spirit of this thing! It’s about sharing, not filling out a form.”

“Fine.” This time Jon let himself grimace. “It was boring, had too many tourists, and there was never anything to do. I have its entire bus system memorized and I learned how to swim by another kid on a field trip shoving me off the row boat and having to paddle to get back on.”

Somehow, this information seemed to delight Martin. They moved on from the flowers, passing by an interesting assembly of rocks before moving on. “Seriously? Oh, that’s great. It took me months to learn the stupid London bus system. I have no sense of direction whatsoever. Mum used to set her clock by it. What about you, do you - uh, have parents?”

“I had told the truth about my parents,” Jon said flatly, unintentionally feeling the Archivist’s deadpan stretch his vowels. By the flicker on Martin’s face, he knew that he was hearing his persnickety boss again. “But my father died of a brain tumor, not lung. I was eight.”

“Oh. I’m sorry I made you share that again. And I’m sorry for not believing you.”

“I wouldn’t have either, if I was you.” Enough of this. Jon forced himself to perk up, drawing up on that friendly yet slightly absent expression. It wasn’t hard to fake stupidity, as he really was rather daft, but people used to hate him for how intense he was. Jon had fixed that. Eventually. “What about your family?”

“Uh, you already know about my Mum, I guess. Care home.” Martin scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, as Jon subtly steered them towards the tropical plant section. “We never got on. I mean, I love her, but - some people are hard to love, you know?”

“Yes,” Jon said. “I know.”

“Right. And my dad ditched us when I was a kid. It was always just us. Uh, trivia - I was adopted from China? Christian charity, I guess.”

Jon wrinkled his nose. “Patronizing, but alright.”

“I know! And she held it over my head for ages.” Read: she never stopped. “But it wasn’t all bad, I suppose. I didn’t mind taking care of her, not really. I’m glad I get to send money back to her -”

This was just pathetic. Jon ducked under an overhanging branch, hiding his disgust. “Whatever happened to ‘don’t bullshit a bullshitter’, Martin?”

“What did I do!” Martin squawked, the branch thoroughly hitting him on the face as his arm unintentionally slipped from Jon’s. 

“If we’re allowed to go back to lying I’d like to state for the record that I was a very athletic child in school.”

“Fine, fine! I hated her guts and she hated mine.” When Jon turned back, he saw that Martin’s face was slightly crumpled. “First time I ever said  _ that _ , thanks.”

Whoops. Too intimate, too soon. Great going, Jon, make the mark feel bad. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Jon said awkwardly. 

“No, no. I’ve made you uncomfortable plenty today. There’s...no point in doing this if we’re both scared to open up. If - if you’re trying, I should try too.” Martin held out his arm again, and Jon let it slip through his. 

They halted in front of a banana tree, admiring its strangeness. The misters hit their faces sharply, warm and cold, and Jon fought the urge to stick out his tongue and taste it. 

“Your turn for a question,” Jon reminded him.

“Uh. Right.” Martin leaned back, scrutinizing the tops of the tree for nascent bananas. They could see them, little nubs of green poking out from the top. Baby bananas. How strange. “She said you weren’t technically related, so how’d you meet Annabelle?”

“Long story. She was a college student in an Arachnophobia experiment, I was pretending to be a psychology professor.” Jon shrugged uncomfortably, leaving out very many dubious details of the story. “I told her what was happening to her and offered my hand.”

Strangely enough, that made Martin smile. “That was nice of you. I’m sure she appreciated it.”

“We love each other.” Jon shocked himself with the truth. Maybe this truth was the easiest. “Very much. She’s bad at showing it sometimes. Agnes and Gerry too, although they can get a little protective of me -”

Martin winced. “I got that.”

What? Whatever. If it was important Jon would find out eventually. “We all rescued each other, I think. If it wasn’t for Gerry, I think Agnes and I would be very bad people. And if it wasn’t for Agnes, I suspect I would be -” Homeless, for much longer than he had been. “ - left without that caring figure. I’m very thankful.”

When he risked glancing at Martin, he saw something strange in him. His face was creased in fondness, and he looked at Jon as if he liked him. As if him talking about his family was - was  _ interesting  _ or something. 

“What about -” Jon burst out, before remembering abruptly that Martin had no siblings and that he knew perfectly well how Martin had met Tim and Sasha - a dog, a lot of yelling, and a Jon who was already beginning to hate this assignment. “ - previous boyfriends? You had any other boyfriends?”

“Wow,” Martin said dryly, “I was wondering when you would stop parroting me.”

This was embarrassing. Jon was usually more subtle than that. Martin made him stupider, which was hard. Too much brain power was dedicated to staring at him or struggling out an honest emotion or imagining what it would be like to fuck him. Or repressing that mental image. Or making himself think about it. Or -

Jon was really an idiot in front of Martin. He wondered if Martin had noticed. He didn’t know if he wanted that or not. He wanted Martin to -

To  _ respect  _ him? Where did  _ that  _ come from? Jon shoved the thought into a box and stuffed it under the bed. Absolutely no point in that.

“I’m very proud of myself too,” Jon said primly, letting Martin lead them out from underneath the tropics and dive straight into the English native plants. Which - yep, boring. They were plants. They were English. “Well?”

Martin sighed. “Not really any long-term things? There was this one coworker when I was eighteen, I think that was the longest. Eight months? But he did way too many drugs and his friends didn’t like me. Coworker when I was twenty, that only lasted three months. When I was...twenty five? Twenty six? What was that guy’s name? If I can’t remember his name then he wasn’t important.” Strangely enough, he looked a little embarrassed. “Three dead end relationships in my entire life. I know that’s - sorry. You know, ah, most people kind of look at me and see - that’s a guy who’s  _ never  _ dated. It’s not true! I’m just not that good at it. Ah, I shouldn’t be saying this to you, right now, huh.” He sagged. “I’m coming off kind of pathetic. It’s just that, uh - well, people are hard. For me! Maybe not for you. What about you?”

What about  _ him _ ?

Jon furrowed his brow, holding up his hand and counting off. Then he moved onto his next hand. Then after that. Then his other hand again. Martin was beginning to look faintly horrified. Because of course he was. 

“Sorry,” Jon said, cutting himself off. He didn’t know why he was apologizing. Why he felt guilty. It didn’t matter if Martin respected him. “I know I’m coming off a bit - easy.”

“No! No, no, no, don’t even worry about that. No sweat there. Do not even - no, of course not! I respect you!” Martin very clearly was hating the fact that he was talking and saying the words he was saying, yet he could not stop. “I respect you quite a great deal, and your body is - it’s  _ yours _ , and I would never ever pass judgement on you, ha ha - so, you ever fall in love?”

Hilariously, Martin looked even more mortified by this question. Jon couldn’t help but give him a little smile, amused, as English grasses waved around them. The wind gusted, just slightly, and loose strands from Jon’s ponytail blew into his mouth. It was like a period romance. Jon had read quite a bit of those. “I’m an Avatar, Martin.”

And Martin was staring at him, just staring, and for once Jon did not know what was in his eyes. “What - what does that have to do with anything?”

Jon laughed lightly, like the tinkling of bells. “You’re so funny! Come on, I want to look at the flowers.”

Flowers were nothing special - Jon threw them away whenever he got them, which was roughly once a week - but Martin seemed the type to like them. He took the initiative this time, pulling Martin just slightly towards the flowerbeds in the center. The garden was arranged in a slight semi-circle, with the flowerbeds at the hub, and they both let themselves stand in silence and admire the sight.

Butterflies fluttered around them, and one drifted so close to Martin that he laughed. Bees lingered on flowers, drinking their fill, and drunkenly stumbled away. Lavender, chrysanthemums, irises, begonias, poppies...

“Poppies are kind of morbid, don’t you think?” Martin muttered. “In Flander’s fields, poppies grow?”

What a call-back to Jon’s intensive war novel phase. “Who’s Flander? Is he a friend of yours?”

“Uh, no, he’s…” Martin stuttered through a surprisingly insightful explanation of the poem, cuing Jon to nod and look impressed. “So, because they do well over graves, they’ve just become this metaphor for death. That’s why we have the Remembrance Poppy?”

Jon made a show of brightening. “So that’s where those come from! How fascinating. What’s that flower over there?”

He pointed at a random begonia, and let Martin spiral into a halting explanation. They kept this up for a bit, Jon mostly tuning Martin out as he let his eyes drift over the field. There were other couples, other families, but they kept their distance from Jon and Martin. Humans always had that survival instinct, when it came to him. Most humans. 

“ - and in Greek mythology, flowers were created by Antheia, who -

“Chloris,” Jon corrected absentmindedly, concentrating on the really cute baby over there and ignoring the rose Martin was pointing to. “Wife of Zephyrus, who transformed her into Flora after they were married. Turned Adonis and Narcissus into flowers, which they probably both appreciated.”

When Jon looked back at Martin, he looked decidedly unimpressed. 

“You know the types of flowers,” he said flatly.

Busted. Jon tried to smile bashfully, but at Martin’s increasingly stormy face he gave up and settled for a neutral, blank expression. Crap. “Don’t criticize me for letting you talk about something you’re passionate about.”

“I’d rather have a fun back and forth with you than a lecture,” Martin said, now truly peeved off. Great. What an unpleasable man. Jon was flirting with him, what more did he  _ want _ . “How can you think that I’d rather have a sycophant than an equal? You won’t stop acting stupid!”

“I’m not exactly bright, Martin,” Jon said, for all appearances irritated. “I can never focus on anything, and when I  _ can  _ it’s always on the wrong thing, and my memory’s terrible, and I can’t read long paragraphs unless it’s interesting, my attention span is non-existent, and I can  _ never  _ pay attention to anything!”

“Jon,” Martin said blankly, “I think you’re just ADHD.”

“I’m a what?”

“Look, even if you do think that about yourself,” Martin said cautiously, as if he didn’t  _ believe  _ Jon when he had said nothing that wasn’t true, “you don’t have to - play it up, Jon.”

“People like people who make them feel smart, Martin,” Jon said slowly, feeling as if he was explaining the alphabet to a toddler. “Do you want me to make you feel stupid again? You hated that about me.” Actually, there was a thought. Jon took a second to consider this. “Well, you were also into it, so if you like I can -”

“I  _ said  _ I wanted honesty, Jon!” Martin cried, and pulled away. Abruptly, Jon felt strangely cold. “I know you’re - I know you’re trying, okay? I appreciate that you haven’t been pulling answers out of your ass. But honesty’s more than just telling me about yourself. It’s - it’s just being yourself. Feeling safe enough to tell someone you care about the real you.” His expression crumpled. “Do you not feel safe with me?”

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it. Yet again, he hesitated too long, and showed his hand. Yet again, Martin knew. How could Jon salvage this?  _ Honesty  _ wouldn’t.

...was he so sure of that? 

Jon took a plunge.

“You’re always working so hard for other’s happiness, even at the expense of your own,” he said flatly, like he said most things where he wasn’t angling for something. “That’s something I like about you. Really. I’m sorry that you’re - that you’re disappointed that you can’t do that for me. I’m...I’m trying. I’m sorry.”

“No, Jon. No, really. Your feelings aren’t about me.” Martin let his shoulders fall, something about him growing softer, and Jon knew what he wanted. “I’m sorry too. I’ve been so focused on pushing you to act normally that I haven’t really realized how hard this must be for you. At the pub, the way you - I guess it’s like a defense mechanism for you. I’m worried some part of me is just doing this because I have something to prove. I’m not sure to who, but - it’s not fair to you. I think we just need to cut each other some slack. Maybe we’re trying to go too fast.”

No. No, no, no. What was this? Martin was just saying things about Jon as if they were  _ true _ . What was this feeling? The feeling that Martin had pulled something back, and  _ saw  _ something, like a tourist paying five pennies to see the two-headed calf behind the curtain. 

It made him feel like such a spectacle. Like he was on stage, and everyone was gawking and looking at him, just like he liked them to do - but he wasn’t playing a character, he was playing  _ him _ , and they were judging -

“Martin,” Jon said, and stepped forward until he was in Martin’s arms. He clutched at the lapel of his shirt, looking down on him while still allowing Martin to fold him into his arms. “ _ Thank  _ you.”

He dived in for the kiss. Kiss #10. Heartfelt. Deep, yet chaste. Passionate, yet reserved. It was a kiss of exploring something new, yet willing to take those new steps together. It was, Jon had been reliably informed, dizzying. 

After a careful count of the seconds and in response to Martin’s body language, he stepped away. Martin looked faintly frazzled, dizzy, and star-struck. As if he had been thrown inside a washing machine, and the machine machine had shown him the world. Jon tried hard not to feel a little smug before giving up. This was his  _ wheelhouse _ . Jon was the world-class expert in this. He didn’t have to be smart, or deep, or likable, or kind, or not annoying, or brave, for this. This, at least, he could do.

“Is there anything else you’d like to see?” Jon asked brightly, self-satisfied. 

“You know,” Martin said slowly, “I think I’ve seen it all.”

“Really?” Jon double-checked the pamphlet. “There’s still quite a bit left to explore.”

“Yeah,” Martin said, “we’ve  _ definitely  _ seen all we’re supposed to.”

If he said so. Jon looped his arm through Martin’s again, pressing closer than he had before. They’d already been there, right? “Want to get lunch? What sounds good?”

“You know,” Martin croaked, “almost anything, I think.”

Jon repressed a smirk. 

But when they left together, arm in arm, Jon found that he really did feel a bit better after all. Kisses always meant that someone liked you, that you were on the right track. Ever since the first date with Martin he felt as if he had been hopelessly derailed, but this fixed everything. Nobody had to  _ like  _ Jon to...well, like him. 

The kiss had been - it had been really nice, actually, being so close to Martin. Martin letting him do that, the show of trust and affection. It meant so much, especially from someone like Martin. Someone who viewed Jon as more of a viper than a songbird. Someone who liked him. In every way. 

It wasn’t an emotion he usually had over kissing someone. Most of the time, it was like...getting a good score in one of Annabelle’s video games. But it was nice. 

So  _ this  _ was the reward of dating extracurricularly, Jon told himself grandly. If you deal with all of the annoying nonsense and distract your partner from his weird questions, you get to reap the reward of kisses that you actually felt pretty good about. This had been a great idea.

He was no longer thinking of that moment, naked on stage with only himself to wear. He was stage manager again, the lead role with all of his lines memorized in the glittering costume. And everyone would clap, and cheer, and throw roses at his feet.

Lights, camera, action. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM THE GAY COCKROACH UNDERNEATH YOUR OIL & GAS HEEL, TED CRUZ
> 
> Leave comments and kudos if you enjoyed please, it's been a fuck of a week.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am VERY excited about this one. This is the biggie. Hold onto your seats. 
> 
> 1) The lovely poetry was written by a lovely poet who chooses to remain anonymous for extremely understandable reasons. She is capable of much better poetry than this (Please don't analyze the poetry. It's meaningless). 
> 
> 2) The number of chapters has gone up due to some rearranging. 
> 
> 3) Content warnings are at the bottom.

  
  


**Day 6 (Martin)**

_ many eyes in darkness, _

_ cocooned amongst the shadows, _

_ come creep my way, dear. _

_ \---- _

_ Beautiful amalgamation,  _

_ Lithe, many-limb'd Puck. _

_ Arachne's most beloved son. _

_ Comely eyes skitter my way-- _

_ Knight of Minerva, riding in. _

_ Who did I successfully pray to, _

_ Invoking you? _

_ Did you spring from some _

_ Other world, a primordial _

_ Web hidden in some divine heaven? _

__ \----

_ catch me now, my love, _

_ cradle me in a gossamer embrace. _

_ drape me in all your finery. _

_ they may say i am but the fly-- _

_ ensnared as so many before me, _

_ a marionette stringing his own strings. _

_ but what puppet wouldn't let their strings _

_ be plucked by a puppeteer like you? _

_ say the word, widower, i'll trail after you, _

_ down the stage's stairs, through the aisles, _

_ picking up loose threads and forgotten shoes. _

_ are they yours, or that of a forgotten muse?  _

_ never mind that--you'll still be who i choose. _

_ after all, i'm strung along this red thread of ours, _

_ fresh from fate's spindle, spider-silk fine. _

  
  
  
  


**Howitt:** aaand that’s the link to the callout post. Tomorrow once i find some more receipts we can post it in the main server channel

**Hiitsdaisy** : holy fucking shit this thing is enormous

**Hiitsdaisy:** how did you even get this much dirt on her? Rebbekah’s going to lose mod status for sure

**Howitt:** i have my ways ;;;;)

**Hiitsdaisy:** ok vriska

**Howitt:** I fucking said to stop calling me that

**Hiitsdaisy** : Sorry!

**Hiitsdaisy:** ……..so like how many of the people involved here are your sockpuppet accounts?

**Howitt:** Haha what makes you think Rebbekah’s not a sockpuppet?

**Howitt:** Haha just kidding

**Howitt:** ;;;;)

**Hiitsdaisy:** right.

**Hiitsdays:** man this is stressful. Right. Can we talk about something else? Literally anything else? How’s your brother doing???

**Howitt:** ugh don’t fucking remind me

**Hiitsdaisy:** I mean, you can talk to me about it? If you want to. We’re friends

**Howitt:** Of course we’re friends!!!

**Hiitsdaisy:** ...that’s  _ exactly  _ what I think your sockpuppet said to Rebbekah, but anyway

**Hiitsdaisy:** what’s up? You have enough dirt on me you don’t gotta worry that I’ll tell anybody lol

**Howitt:** ya that’s true. Hergh. Okay.

**Howitt:** last seen on: Mary’s life: brother started dating that absolute douchebag of a terrible person idiot fool. Uh i need a pseudonym. Let’s call him Fartin.

**Howitt:** Farts, for short.

**Howitt:** my brother’s the kind of guy who’s always getting around right? But EVERY person he dates is so bad for him. They’re all so douchey and like obviously it’s all for sugar daddy purposes cuz the HUSTLE IS REAL and I respect it, but like the only people who have ever actually cared about him are me and like our. Two friends. Which is all he needs??? 

**Hiitsdaisy:** so on a scale of like 100-1000 how hot is your brother

**Howitt:** We’re adopted so I’m literally legally not allowed to respond to that. 

**Hiitsdaisy:** why hello step-brother im stuck in this washing machine

**Howitt:** will kill you.

**Howitt:** anyway. Normally it’s not a big deal because it’s not like he LIKES them so the worst they can do is annoy him. But like now he’s on guy #403 and Farts is obviously just like every other one. Do you have any idea how hard it is to have a hot brother?! And of course Farts is sweet talking and saying all that shit new boyfriends say and it’s all the usual BS because guys all want one thing Daisy! 

**Howitt:** but my brother’s actually falling for it this time? I Do Not Know Why. and he’s just eating this shit up. It makes me want to bang my head into a wall. He came back from their latest date and he was  _ whistling _ . WHISTLING! Like he was HAPPY?

**Hiitsdaisy:** Isn’t it a good thing that your brother’s happy, though? Maybe this guy really is different. 

**Howitt:** Once you know enough people, you see that they’re all the same. People r just the sockpuppet accounts of real life. 

**Hiitsdaisy:** ...please don’t tell me you’re, uh, putting together Fartin’s callout post

**Howitt:** lol

**Howitt:** Farts is just like all 402 other boyfriends. It’s all a game played to fail. There’s no win condition. Jon’s gonna care too much, Jon’s gonna give this guy fuckin everything that he doesn’t deserve, and it’ll end and break his heart. If not in 4 days then in 4 months, or 4 years, or whatever. It’ll happen. It’s best to just get it over with ya know?

**Hiitsdaisy:** ...why do I have the feeling you’re manufacturing Fart’s callout post?

**Howitt:** lol

**Howitt:** ;;;;)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**ARCHIVIST**

Statement ends. 

Mrs. Hawthorne died shortly after making this statement. After three reports to the police of a “winged monster with infinite teeth”, she was forcibly institutionalized at London Bellevue Hospital. She inhabited the hospital for two weeks, before she was found dead in her bed with her throat ripped out.  __

So far, I see nothing supernatural about this statement. As usual. Just another case of a paranoid schizophrenic, some auditory and visual hallucinations, a practical joke, a severe car crash, a solar eclipse, and one very large door. No cause for concern. Honestly, I’m growing sick of all of these nonsense statements. Imagine using a cassette player to do your job, for christ’s sake. They’re so ugly and gross. Give me a good micro - MARTIN!

**MARTIN**

What, what, what’s - Jon? Oh, no.

**ARCHIVIST**

_ Yes _ , oh no. Get that thing out of here! ….please.

**MARTIN**

Right, right! Sorry, sorry, sorry. Come here, you little fella...that’s right. Here! Problem all solved. I’ll just take this naughty little boy outside. They’re vital parts of the ecosystem and everything, we should save them. 

**ARCHIVIST**

I find them a bit too nosy. Did you know that roughly one million spiders live in every acre of land? It’s estimated that any human being, at any given moment, is never more than ten feet away from a spider.

**MARTIN**

Wow, that’s cool! You wouldn’t think it when you’re looking at a carpark. I wonder if there’s a spider within two meters of us now.

**ARCHIVIST**

Obviously.

**MARTIN**

Oh. Right, right. Uh, that reminds me! It’s just that, er, Tim wanted to know if you...we’re all going to lunch, it’s that time of the day! One pm, you know. He just wanted me to ask if you - wanted to come? Tim wanted to ask. And Sasha. Those two. 

**ARCHIVIST**

Hm.

**MARTIN**

I know you’re busy! I just thought that it’d be a bit nice? Tim thought. I mean.

**ARCHIVIST**

Let me grab my coat.

**MARTIN**

Great! Great, I’ll see - yes, let’s go. Oh, shouldn’t you turn off -

**JONATHAN SIMS**

Yes. The sound is rather grating. Lead the way, Martin.

_ [Click] _

  
  
  


**Day 7 (Jon)**

_ Click. _

Jon frowned down at the tape deck. 

Jon was, of course, a normal (?) person (???) who didn’t own a tape deck. He had to borrow one from Gerry, some kind of little blue hipster thing with a Bluetooth hookup. There was a dedication to the aesthetic there, without any intention of sacrificing material comforts, which Jon respected. Gerry did what he wanted first, and cared about everything else second. 

That being said, Jon would have to throw this out later. It really wasn’t safe to have one of these awful things lying around. It wasn’t safe to have any cassettes around either, especially one of  _ these _ , but Jon hadn’t had much of a choice about it. 

The envelope had appeared in his mailbox, a manilla envelope stuffed with three or four cassette tapes. They were all of the same vein of the one he just listened to - a banal statement, stretched out by the Archivist’s familiar vowels with the extra touch of the theatre major drama. The job had been dull as hell, but Jon missed doing monologues. There hadn’t been much of an opportunity lately, now that he was out of university, and it was probably best to keep a low profile to keep his face less recognizable. It was already annoying enough that Jon was a somewhat conspicuous person, although he could take steps to let himself blend into a crowd. He rarely did, of course, but he could.

University. It had been fun turning himself into an Oxford superstar - really, a vital introduction into how to control crowds, institutions, and partners. It had also been a crash course into how to rub elbows and shoulders with the ultra-wealthy, the nobility, and the peerage. They had a special language that was all their own, and all Jon had to do was manufacture some titles (Brother to a Viscount of Cyprus, white people will believe you’re from  _ anywhere _ ) and he was in. 

Georgie had made fun of him. Hanging out with Sir Swot, you think you’re too good for me, now? No, Georgie, never, I’m certain that you’re too good for me -

He missed her. He let himself admit that. He had called her his ‘Stage manager in crime’, she had called him a diva. They texted when they could - mostly cat pictures - but they hadn’t met up in a year or so. Too many deep covers, too many masks that he couldn’t explain. Didn’t she have a girlfriend now? Is that what she had said? Good for her. Jon had thought about asking her out a few times in uni - many times - but he had always figured that she deserved someone who didn’t have five other people on the side. They had been better off as friends. His contact image in her phone was that painting of Narcissus looking at his reflection. Maybe he should text her. 

Jon rewound the tape deck and played it again. 

That was how Sasha and Tim found him - sitting with careful rigidity in a chair pushed against a rickety and cheap wood laminate table in the depths of the University of London’s library. He was in the very pits of the basement, where the compact shelving stood in heavy and looming columns. They were so old they still operated by hand crank, and the adventurous young student looking for law journals or parliamentary records was forced to crank and crank until the shelves rumbled apart like ancient stone gates. Ruins of a forgotten land - or, at least, forgotten to everyone who did not enjoy venturing into compact shelving for fun. So, everyone.

Everyone but Sasha James, who ventured here semi-frequently. After the destruction of the Magnus Institute, every surviving book and record in its admittedly voluminous library was transferred to UL. Say what you will about the Magnus Institute - and Jon had plenty to say - its collection of paranatural and mystical research was unparalleled. Sociologists had laughed off its tendency to genuinely investigate the supernatural, but half of the sociology professors in London - those interested in cults, religion, history, psychic phenomena, witchcraft and its history, shamanism and its history, faith healing both traditional and new age - had taken advantage of its library once or twice. Jon, personally, had liked sneaking in late at night and reading the history of African diaspora religions. As research. For his role. 

Of course, because the books were slightly charred and deemed impure both academically and spiritually - in fairness, some of them did bleed - they were all shoved into the compact shelving in the basement. Sasha James had been coming down here for two months. As of two weeks ago, Tim had found out and pleaded for her to move on. Two days ago, Tim had given up on her moving on and had instead insisted that he go with her next time. Tim was the kind of friend who would try and convince you not to kill anyone, but in the event that he failed he would help you bury the body. If you hadn’t lost his trust by revealing that your friendship had been a fabrication. In that case you were probably the body.

Obviously, they were not happy to see him. Even more obviously, he did not hang out in creepy university library basements for fun. Sasha’s lips pursed when she recognized him as she descended the stairwell, and Jon didn’t miss how Tim’s face broke into cold rage. Sasha quickly squeezed his shoulder, but Tim batted her aside as he strode harshly towards Jon. Honestly, how masc. It was actually pretty attractive, but -

“What are you  _ doing _ here?” Tim hissed, looming slightly. Still pretty attractive, honestly.

Still, no excuse for rudeness. Jon leaned back a little, wrinkling his nose. “Rude? Don’t get up in my business until you buy better cologne.”

It was almost funny to see Tim’s face go through the five stages of grief - or, more accurately, the five stages of ‘what the fuck’. “You’re  _ joking _ .”

“I told you,” Sasha said, finally catching up to them. She gently tugged at Tim’s elbow until he was backing away from Jon, dropping him in a chair diagonally from Jon as she dropped into the chair across from him. Tellingly, she reached into her rucksack and pulled out an accordion style file folder with -  _ wow  _ that was a lot of paper. Jon’s eyes glazed over just thinking about it. “He’s different.”

“He’s a stalker,” Tim accused immediately, and Jon yawned. Heard that one before. “Haven’t you had enough of jerking us around, asshole? You’re so busy going after Sasha and Martin, why don’t you go after  _ me _ ?”

Jon leaned back in his chair, clearly sizing Tim up with half-lidded eyes. “I figured you were taken, but honestly if you buy me a drink first -”

“Shut up!”

“Honestly, Tim, this is a library -”

“Then we can fucking take this outside, asshole!”

“Boys!” Sasha said sharply, voice cracking like a whip, and both Jon and Tim guiltily quieted down. “Don’t make me play fucking mediator here! If you two want to have a bitch fest, do it on your own time!”

“I wasn’t the one starting fights,” Jon complained, but at Sasha’s withering look he quieted. She wasn’t as bad as Agnes, but she hadn’t helped raise him. “Fine, fine. What did you want to talk to me about, Sasha?”

Tim’s jaw jumped in anger again. “You were the one lying in  _ wait  _ here!”

“I was invited,” Jon said prissily. “Wasn’t I?”

Slowly, realization dawning, Tim turned to Sasha. She was a little incredulous, a lot suspicious, but there was a hint of guilt on her face. She had done something wrong, but she had thought that she had gotten away with it. “I don’t remember asking him to meet us here.”

“You didn’t have to.” Jon yawned again, just to be annoying. “Stuffing some old cassettes in my mailbox -”

“ _ Sasha _ !”

“ - and making it obvious that you find me the best source of answers for your useless questions was invitation enough.” At Sasha’s open mouth, he added, “Don’t bother asking how I knew you would be here at this time. We’ve been over this.”

Most of Jon expected some more blustering or posturing from Tim, but instead he was just looking intently at Gerry’s garish bright blue hipster tape recorder. As if he was figuring something out, or as if he was realizing that he had something he needed to figure out. “Play it.”

“Why?” Jon asked, irritated. “You’ve already heard -”

“Just do it, asshole.”

Jon played it.

They listened to the conversation again in silence, a banal day at the Archives that must have been newly cast in an uncomfortable glow. The signs were there, of course, if you chose to look for them. It was Jon’s idea of a little joke - always asking Martin to get rid of the spiders, both making him feel needed and to piss off Annabelle. The fake skepticism to lure in Jonah, and the reserved smiles to lure in everyone else. To always play hard to get, playing the stand-offish and prickly boss but always making it clear that he was just  _ playing _ . Once people found the secret side of you, they stopped looking. 

Most people didn’t look very deep into Jon at all. Maybe he and Martin were similar that way. 

Most people didn’t have the opportunity to make the same mistake twice. But Tim did. Even as Sasha looked a little uncomfortable with the conversation that was not about Science and Facts, Tim was focusing intently on the tape recorder, up until the recording clicked off. 

They sat in silence for a bit, Jon’s fingers jumping. He was uncomfortable with silence, and he was about to fill the air with some meaningless chatter to piss Tim off when the older man spoke again.

“Why?”

Oh, god, this again. Jon rolled his eyes. “Well, when a Mommy eldritch spider horrorterror loves a little boy very much, she implants her egg sacs into him and -”

“That’s not what I mean, and stop talking,” Tim said quickly, even as Sasha had already started scribbling his words down. “I mean why did you pretend to be our  _ friend _ . You already told us why you had to do your stupid fear god infighting with Elias, whatever, but nowhere in that did it say that you had to pretend be friends with us.”

What a stupid question. Jon didn’t know why Tim was asking it.

Jon normally knew why people asked things. 

“I’m a professional,” Jon sniffed. “Any character that solely existed to impersonate a potential Avatar would be two dimensional. I assure you, if you’re lying awake at night in anguish over whether or not I actually liked any of you, I wouldn’t worry. Jonathan Sims was a complete fabrication.”

“Lie,” Sasha said cheerfully, scribbling away at her notebook. 

Jon stopped short, somewhat as if he had run merrily into a brick wall.

“Excuse me?” he said frostily.

“That was a lie.”

“No it wasn’t.”

“Yes it was.”

“I  _ assure  _ you, if I was lying, you wouldn’t be able to tell,” Jon said.

Sasha just hummed. “Then why was I able to tell?”

“Please validate your hypothesis.”

“There’s no need to validate something self-evident and previously proven.”

“Then please cite where it was proven.”

“ _ God _ , you two, I was an editor for children’s novels, I can’t keep up with this,” Tim said, exhausted. “Can you go be nerds on your own -”

They stopped short, all three of them, and they guiltily languished in embarrassed silence. Jon defensively started fixing his hair. 

Sasha flipped to a new page in her notebook, breaking the moment. “Now that we’re all over this feelings stuff can we finally talk about my theoretical understanding of the uni -”

“You were my friend, Jon,” Tim said, and something in his voice was so tense and fraught Sasha shut up. “I didn’t have a lot of friends,  _ actual _ friends. People have always just tolerated me because I was - funny, or fun, or charming, or whatever. But you were never charmed by me, and you never fell for any of that. I always felt as if you secretly just liked me for me. And it  _ hurt  _ to know that you had been using me.”

It was a little strange, how Jon had probably conned a thousand people into liking him, but he had never had this conversation before. He had never really come face to face with anybody he had hurt, anybody who still carried that pain with them. At the very least, he had never really cared that he had done so. 

This was something he had no script for. He had no comforting lies for this. Or maybe he just had no comforting lies that he wanted to tell.

Was there such a thing as a comforting truth? There couldn’t be. Right?

“Tim…” Sasha said softly. 

But Tim just clenched his jaw tighter, and Jon found himself shrinking back a little. He felt very small and cowardly, in the face of this incredible conviction. “If you’ve been using Sasha and Martin because they care about you, or the person we thought you were, I don’t care  _ how  _ many creepy superpowers you have. I will stop you. You’re  _ not  _ hurting the people I care about again.”

“If this is about Martin,” Jon said testily, “then I can assure you -”

“Of  _ course  _ it’s fucking about Martin!” Tim yelled. Sasha shushed him, mindful of the fact that they were in a library, but Jon rolled his eyes and wiggled his fingers as if he was plucking instrument strings. Nobody would notice. “Why are you pretending to like him? What’s with all of the dates? You’re stringing him along!”

“Martin is the one person I’m  _ not  _ stringing along,” Jon said, smothering his hurt under his usual cool affect. But somehow he just couldn’t summon that affect with Tim. Despite himself, he slid further and further into that familiar back-and-forth snipe fest that always left Tim laughing and Jon rolling his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you people that I have no ulterior motive in pursuing him.”

Well, besides Annabelle’s whole bet thing, but that was just for fun. Everybody had an ulterior motive for things, it added zest to life.

“People like you have an ulterior motive for everything,” Tim sneered, very unfairly. “You’ve been leading him on since you met because you knew he’d be an easy mark.”

“Martin’s not  _ gullible _ ,” Jon snapped. “He’s the least gullible person I’ve ever met. Trust me, if I was lying to him then he would have figured it out by now. He  _ has  _ figured it out, dozens of times. Do you think he’s stupid? He doesn’t need you to give me this half-baked shovel talk!”

“Of course we don’t think he’s stupid,” Tim said, so heatedly he must have thought Martin was stupid. “And this isn’t a stupid shovel talk, it’s a warning. I’m not letting you get away with this shit again. If you make Martin happy, then - fine! Fine. But Martin’s an easy mark because he’s always seeing the good in people. Even the good in people like you. And if you’re abusing that -”

“Martin is well aware I’m a terrible person -”

“I asked you here for two reasons,” Sasha said crisply, and yet again both Tim and Jon shut up. “It was so I could ask you more questions, which I can already tell we aren’t going to get to. Or that Jon’s going to play dumb again. The other reason was because you two needed to have this conversation. Tim’s been stewing big time, and he needed to have it out with Jon.”

“I didn’t need this conversation,” Jon said primly.

“ _ You  _ have never faced the consequences of your actions in your life,” Sasha said, and Jon guiltily shut up. “Rule one in repairing relationships, Jon? Apologize.”

“What makes you think I want to repair this relationship,” Jon muttered, feeling exceptionally childish. 

But something about Sasha softened. “Maybe I’m the one who wants to fix it.” She ignored Tim’s shocked and somewhat affronted look. “Maybe I wanted you to apologize. Maybe I hoped that you would. Was that stupid of me, Jon?”

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it. Horrendously, embarrassingly, violently, he had nothing to say to that. What was  _ with  _ Tim, Sasha, and Martin that always brought this out in him? The volatility, the snappishness, the ugliness? Jon wasn’t ugly. He was never ugly. He made sure of it. Jon wasn’t -

“Jon,” Tim said, low and serious. “Do you love Martin?”

Jon froze.

There was no social script for this. There was no right or wrong answer, not when Tim would hate him no matter what. Tim didn’t want Jon in Martin’s life, but he would hate Jon if he was just stringing Martin along. What was the right thing to say? What was the win condition, what would get Jon out of this conversation with the least amount of ill feelings? What could mean that, maybe, he and Tim and Sasha could be friends again?

The idea - that these two  _ knew  _ that Jon was a liar and a sneak and a thief, and that he had hurt them deeply, but they wanted to be friends  _ anyway  _ -

It went against everything he knew of humanity. And Jon knew everything about humanity. 

Didn’t he?

Was he pausing too long again? Martin hated it when he paused too long. But he had no script for this, and Jon didn’t know how to say  _ anything  _ without a script, he just stuttered and froze and hurt feelings. 

“Hah,” Tim said, and it was only then that Jon realized he was smiling. “He looks panicked. That’s Jon when faced with an Emotion, alright.”

“With a capital E and a ™,” Sasha said thoughtfully. A smile was tugging at her lips too. She looked almost amused. “It’s okay, Jon. Nobody knows the answer to that question after two dates. It was kind of a trick question.”

Oh, thank god. Jon sagged. “You two are ruining my skin.”

“You deserve it!” Tim said cheerfully. He reached over and picked up the tape recorder, tossing it at Jon, who caught it effortlessly. Eight arms gave you a certain amount of mandatory grace. “Now fuck off. And if you play any of your stupid games with Martin, I’ll make you regret it.”

That was a cue to leave if Jon ever heard one. He stood up, clutching the recorder to his chest, and gave Tim his most sincere look. It probably didn’t look terribly sincere, but - well, Jon did his best. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll commit to him. I’ll prove it this time. That I care.”

Ignoring Tim and Sasha’s bemused looks, he turned sharply on his heel to leave. Well, that had been a complete and abject disaster, but it could have gone worse. What was it about the last ten days that had left him completely on his off-foot? After he seduced Martin, he would have to load up on cons just so he could feel good about himself again. Unless Martin wouldn’t like that? Well, Martin wouldn’t have to  _ know  _ -

“Jon,” Tim called, and Jon stopped in his tracks. When he turned around he saw a tense man, but there was something almost gentle in his eyes. “You were one of the people I cared about too.”

Something in Jon’s heart cracked. He didn’t know it could still do that. “I can be that person again,” Jon volunteered. It was the kindest thing he could do, and the only expression of affection he knew how to give. “If you want him. I can give you him.”

But Tim just looked a little sad, while Sasha looked faintly disturbed. “I don’t want anything from you, Jon. Just stop fucking with us.”

In that moment, for the first time in three months, Jon and Tim were in complete agreement - that it really was for the best if Jon stayed far, far away from Tim and Sasha. Even if he wanted -

But Jon wasn’t a child. He didn’t want anything. Jon held no desire, no wanting or craving in his hollow husk of a heart. That was childish.

Jon had money. He was hot. He had a loving family, all of the boyfriends and girlfriends he could want, a beautiful flat in London and a fulfilling and exciting job that helped people. He was hot and had spider powers. There was nothing  _ to  _ want. People this hot didn’t want things that they didn’t get. 

Desires weren’t worth anything. Desires and a flirty smile could get you a cup of coffee. The best he could do was manipulate the situation to his advantage, to play the game until he won. If he had to be an Avatar, if he had been marked since the moment he opened that book - well, he’d just be the best damn Avatar there ever was. He’d be an Avatar who helped people, who could still look at himself in the mirror and call himself a good person. Desires didn’t get you parents, or friends, or a partner who stayed, or a partner who was worth staying for. Jon had worked for everything he had, and he was proud of it. He had sacrificed  _ everything  _ to win it all. 

And even if he did want something, it hardly mattered.

  
  
  
  


**Jon:** hey georgie!!!

**Georgie:** JON what’s up? It’s been like a month lol

**Jon:** sorry ive been super swamped at work :( 

**Georgie:** you work? I thought u just had a collection of sugar daddies lol

**Jon:** well, yes, but that takes work.

**Jon:** im in ur neighborhood and im wondering if u were free and home? Id love 2 drop by and see Mr.Capt.Lt.Admiral

**Georgie:** i wfh so one could say,,,I’m ALWAYS home,,,but yeah sure drop on by it’s been ages

**Georgie:** and you don’t have to keep using the admiral as an excuse to come see me lol

**Jon:** I’ll be over in 20

  
  


In reality, it took almost thirty minutes, because Jon ended up stress-buying Starbucks (black, have you seen the amount of calories in their frappes) and anxiously twiddling his thumbs in the coffee shop across the street from Georgie’s flat complex.

He was being ridiculous. Georgie liked him. Look at how she put his name in all caps, she thought he was great. Everybody thought he was great. Was he being clingy? She kept on mentioning how it’s been a while, did she resent him? Did she think this was weird? Jon was always dropping in and out of lives, she knew that, she shouldn’t be surprised. She knew the cat was an excuse. Georgie always knew. Somehow, for some reason, she always knew.

Jon was a superpowered Avatar and Eldest Child of a malevolent Eldritch entity that preyed on the fears and insecurities of man. He was  _ not  _ scared of a one sixty cm human woman. 

At least, he wouldn’t be, if Georgie wasn’t terrifying. 

Finally deciding that he was being ridiculous, Jon trekked across the street and up the rickety iron steps so he could knock on her door. She hadn’t reminded him about her address, but Jon technically had an eidetic memory, so that wasn’t a concern. 

He only had three seconds to spiral into further anxiety before he heard the scrape of a deadbolt and the click of a lock, and Georgie was blinking up at him. She looked exactly the same, wearing only loose pyjama pants with little sheep printed on them, and a faded t-shirt she had bought at  _ The Book of Mormon _ . 

“Jon!” Georgie exclaimed, and Jon waved with a strained smile. “You look - wow. Jeez. Uh, come in, come in -  _ no _ , baby, the outside is a bad place and not for kitties!”

Jon quickly ducked down and rescued the bolting cat desperate for freedom. If he had to use his sixth hand, then Georgie wouldn’t have noticed. It clearly fascinated the cat, and he batted at Jon’s technically balled elbow as Jon smiled sheepishly and held him like a little baby. 

“Sorry for dropping by so unexpectedly. I just - really wanted to pet the cat.”

“Sure,” Georgie said, somehow impossibly sarcastically. She stepped aside, gesturing inside her flat. “Come on in.”

Georgie’s flat was the same as ever. Jon always had to forcibly remind himself that very few twenty-somethings in London had his kind of resources, and that this poky little one bedroom thing with an open floor plan was very normal. He couldn’t help but notice that the furniture was slightly rearranged - some pieces removed, some pieces added. There was some camera equipment littering the coffee table, and a folded tripod leaned in the corner. 

“Your girlfriend moved in with you,” Jon noted absently, as he sat down on the floor and grabbed a cat toy that the Admiral immediately pounced on. “Entertainment industry?”

“God, I forgot you can do that,” Georgie said, sounding both warm and a little pissed off as she shut the door behind him. “Yes, she did. Melanie’s out right now shooting some b-rolls and she won’t be back until tonight, so if you want to meet her you’ll have to come by some other time. Can I get you something to drink?” Jon opened his mouth, and Georgie shot him a withering look. “If you’re about to ask for wine, I don’t drink at two pm and you’d just get all snobby about my wine.”

“Two’s perfect wine time?”

“I hate rich people.”

“Georgie, you know perfectly well I’m new money.”

“Then spread some of that wealth around and pay for my bills, you dick!”

But she was laughing, and she sat down on the floor with Jon, and there was no need to talk. They just played with the cat, sometimes making stupid faces at him or taking dumb pictures when he did something exceptionally cute, and when Jon and Georgie did talk it was about nothing important at all.

Georgie didn’t know about any of this. She wasn’t Annabelle, who had set up the entire dumb bet with him and was giving him lots of good advice. She wasn’t Agnes or Gerry, who obviously disapproved of the whole thing even if they were being tight-lipped as to why. God knows she wasn’t Martin, Tim, or Sasha - all of whom hated him just a bit, in their own wounded ways. She was just a human, who had nothing to do with any of this, who knew just how terrible Jon was and had always found it funny. 

Here, today, Georgie’s flat felt like a refuge. Like the world was out there, and it couldn’t penetrate this fragile and luminescent bubble. 

Maybe that was why he said it.

“I have to do something tomorrow,” Jon said quietly, and Georgie glanced up at him from where she was teasing the cat with a mouse toy on a string. “But I’m scared to do it.”

The Admiral slunk across the ground, tail lashing slowly across the hardwood. Georgie just cocked an eyebrow at Jon. “Is it a dentist’s appointment?”

“Very similar,” Jon said gravely. “Yes, let’s say that. I’m very nervous. But...every person I’ve ever met tells me that dentist appointments are fun. That they’re great and everybody has a good time and that you aren’t an adult until you go get your cavities filled.”

“Just to be clear, the dentist’s appointment is a metaphor now, right?”

“Yes, of course.” The Admiral made a dive for the mouse, but Georgie jerked it at the last minute and it skittered away. “And as you get older and older, it’s just...taken for granted that you’ve been to the dentist. Everybody’s making jokes about their dentist experience and you just don’t understand, but you laugh along because you don’t want anybody to know. But you’re scared. And when you finally make that appointment…”

Jon realized, too late, that his hands were shaking. Amateur. He stilled them, hoping Georgie hadn’t seen. She was looking at the Admiral, so maybe not. 

“...when you finally make that appointment, you can’t stop thinking about it,” Jon continued. “How does it feel when the dentist puts on the rubber gloves? Are they going to stick metal rods in your mouth and move them around? What if they pull a tooth and it’s painful? You heard that they fill your mouth up with water, and that sounds terrible. You’ve heard horror stories about them pulling wisdom teeth and the tooth falling down the throat. What if they have to stick their hands in your throat? You don’t want their hands in your throat, touching you, invading you. You don’t want any of them anywhere near you. And everyone just keeps saying you’re scared of doctors. That you should give doctors a chance. But you have, and the experience was so terrible that you left in the middle of your appointment.” The Admiral leapt and caught the mouse, satisfied, his sharp claws puncturing the fabric. “Maybe you are just scared. But maybe you’re right, and dentistry is nothing more than medieval bloodletting. Letting leeches stick to your skin and rip open your flesh and suck out everything about you, gorging their fat little bodies. It’s vile and disgusting, but everyone is just laughing with leeches on their arms and bragging about them. And maybe you’re the only one rational enough to see it, but you’re yelling at an uncaring audience like Cassandra to Troy.”

They sat in silence for a bit, until the Admiral released his prize. He trotted over to Jon, crawling into his lap and melting in kitty happiness, and Jon scratched him along the ruff of his collar. Georgie stared at him, expression inscrutable. 

“Is there a reason why you have to go to the dentist?” Georgie asked finally. 

Jon just smiled weakly at her. “Nobody likes a man with bad teeth, Georgie.”

They sat in silence for a bit, interrupted only by the Admiral’s purring. 

“If you’re in any kind of trouble, Jon,” Georgie said, agonizingly slow, “you know you can tell me, right?”

“Yes,” Jon said, “you’re rather the only person I can tell.”

“Well. No offense, but that’s kind of sad.”

“Isn’t it?”

Nothing more was said. Georgie moved to sit closer to Jon, under the pretense of wanting to pet the cat too, and Jon let himself lean against her, just a little, and he matched his breathing to hers. 

  
  
  


**Day 8 (Martin)**

  
  


**Jon:** date night tonight? :)

**Martin:** Sure!! Where would you like to go this time?

**Jon:** ahh well the weathers crummy and im not feeling food

**Jon:** so maybe ur place?

Five minutes passed. 

**Jon:** netflix and chill or whatever?

Thirty seconds passed, after Martin stopped internally screaming

**Martin:** yeah sounds great, 8pm? I’ll provide ice cream if you provide the wine! Looking forward to seeing you!

**Jon:** me too ;)

Martin paced his flat, internally screaming. Oh no. Oh no, oh no. What was he thinking? His flat was a disaster, he had to go out and buy ice cream, Martin didn’t have  _ anything  _ to wear, it was  _ at his flat _ , Jon had said  _ netflix and chill  _ and -

Maybe he did mean Netflix and chill! Maybe Jon meant that in just completely a normal, watching Netflix and then having a chill time way. Like a sleepover. Haha yeah, just like that, a sleepover, with a hot guy, on your third date, in your flat, not in his flat with all of his flatmates, who had more partners than even he could count so he  _ obviously  _ knew what he was saying -

Oh, man. Oh man! With  _ Martin _ ?

The first thing Martin did was frantically clean his flat, uncomfortably aware that Jon was probably used to far better. Why couldn’t they go to - right, right, evil flatmates who wanted to kill Martin.

Right. There was that. That was a problem. Maybe Martin should recommend somewhere -

But Martin was pretty freaking sick and tired of letting Jon’s evil family dictate what Martin did. Martin hated it when people tried to control or manipulate him, that was his job. And he didn’t like keeping things from Jon - it would be hypocritical to even do that. He should tell Jon about what his flatmates said. And no, this wasn’t just because he wanted to swipe away any reasons not to hook up. 

When the flat was sparkling clean, Martin hustled out the door and picked up the ice cream. He stood in front of the locked condoms cabinet, sweating, before finally grabbing his usual brand and some other supplies. He hustled home, mind buzzing with an emotion he couldn’t place and thoughts he couldn’t verbalize. 

So much of Martin had been insecure about this. No matter how many assurances Jon gave, so much of Martin was just so convinced that this was a game to him. But this was the biggest sign Martin had received from Jon that he was serious, that there was going to be a fourth date and a fifth and a sixth. 

But wasn’t everything a game to Jon? Wasn’t this just a stupid bet to Martin?

No, it was so much more than that stupid bet. And, if this was what Jon really wanted, then maybe it meant that he liked Martin after all. Really, actually, genuinely liked him.

Nobody had ever really, genuinely, actually liked Martin. Not really. Not in any permanent way, not in any sort of committed way. This was hardly Martin’s first time doing this, but never with somebody who was as important to him as Jon. 

And it wasn't just out of horniness. Well, maybe Jon was the kind who'd fuck anyone, but he was rich and charismatic and hot enough to have standards. Higher standards than Martin, anyway. Martin wasn't the kind of person you fucked because he was hot, he knew that. So it must be because he _liked_ Martin. That he liked Martin so much that he found something attractive in him. 

Was he excited? Or was he just scared? Was it a mix, were these things compatible? Fear and excitement and trepidation and anticipation and the heady thrill? The flatting feeling of being wanted, of being chosen? Or did he just love the part of his brain that was just going - wow, wow, wow, wow, wow!

It wasn’t as if Martin hadn’t wanted this. But Jon wanted this too. And that was better than anything else, better than all of the rest. Jon, and Martin. Could they be together? Was it possible, for someone like Martin, for someone like Jon? 

In the telly shows and the books, it wasn’t planned out like this. It always seemed to spontaneously happen, straight from the desire to the action. As if desire was enough, and there was nothing standing in the way of that but a contrived plot. But in real life, Martin was well aware, sometimes you had to schedule and plan and deal with the awkward timing and desperate searching for cues. This wasn’t the fun part. 

God, how did other gay guys even do hook-ups, Martin would rather die. 

Finally, after a few hours of ever-increasing anxiety only barely mediated by frantic re-reads of  _ Much Ado About Nothing _ , there was a knock on his door. Martin practically jumped out of his skin, only taking a second to glance at his hair in the mirror - fine, his jumper was fine, his jeans were fine - before he opened the door. His heart was thumping in his chest, leaping in this throat.

But it was only Jon at the door, same as ever. His hair was falling luxuriously down his shoulders, and he was wearing his dark red tight trousers with his sleeveless black turtleneck again. The jacket was missing, replaced by a silk white scarf. He was holding two bottles of wine and smiling mischievously at Martin. 

“Can I come in?”

“Oh - yeah, of course! Sorry my flat isn’t very much…”

Great, look insecure in the first second, good job. But Jon just hummed as he walked in, eyes raking over the place and obviously making some sort of judgement that Martin wasn’t privy to. When he turned and smiled fondly at Martin, holding out the wine for him to take to the kitchen, it made his heart do backflips in his chest. “It’s perfect. Have any movies in mind, or would you like to hang out first?”

“Movie’s fine!” Martin blurted, taking the wine. The label was completely unfamiliar to him. He didn’t want to think about how expensive it probably was. “Uh, the remote’s on the side table, go ahead and turn the TV on as I pour these…”

He poured the wine, silently thankful for the first time that he had illegally bartended as a kid, and grabbed the Ben & Jerry’s as he put everything on the coffee table. On second thought, he put one of the bottles of wine on the coffee table too. He handed Jon his requested flavor and carefully sat down, taking a second to silently freak out over how close to Jon he was suppos ed to sit. Should they be touching? Almost touching? Close enough to extend an arm over the back of the couch? Why wasn’t there a manual to this?

But, as usual, Jon knew exactly what to do. Martin sat down a careful distance away, and when he bent forward to grab his glass of wine he somehow ended up closer to Martin than where he had started. Their sides were pressed up against each other, and Jon easily leaned his head on Martin’s shoulder. It was kind of impressive, considering how Jon was a good head taller than Martin, but he was sprawled across the couch in the exact perfect way to let it happen. Thank god that at least  _ one  _ of them knew what they were doing. 

“Wow, you watch a lot of romcoms,” Jon said cheerfully, not so much sipping his wine as draining it. “I prefer cooking competitions myself. Or reality TV. It’s kind of fun to see what people are like under pressure, right?”

“I don’t know,” Martin said, somewhat relieved at the retreat to normal conversation. “I can’t really watch reality TV knowing how fake and manufactured it is. Like, it’s all edited to hell and back.”

“You’re right,” Jon said, just as cheerful. “I suppose I just like watching people squirm. You know I funded several telly programs where -” at Martin’s terrified look, he quickly said, “ - you know, let’s keep work out of tonight. Just pleasure. Right?”

“Right,” Martin said, dizzy at Jon’s half-moon smile. “No work tonight.”

They eventually settled on some mindless nature documentary, because Martin liked the pretty images and Jon liked the fun animal facts. That, at least, seemed to carry over to every Jon that Martin had met so far: dude had a  _ lot  _ of insect facts under his belt. Of course, it wasn't as if the movie was important. They'd probably forget it soon enough. Wow. 

So much of Martin still bursting with questions, words left unsaid. He hadn’t asked them during the last date, well aware that he was pushing Jon far enough already. But he couldn’t stop thinking about them. How had it happened? What had turned Jon into an Avatar? What did being an Avatar  _ mean _ , anyway? He kept on hearing the term but nobody had slowed down to explain. Why had Jon decided to live out his weird Robin Hood life, and where did Agnes and Gerry fit into it? 

There were only two days left of the bet. Maybe Jon would give Martin his real name, if he asked. But it had taken so long to get Jon to even open up about what he wanted, and it had been a mistake to try and push him so quickly. Maybe he should just forget Annabelle and wait. But if he waited, then would that opportunity be lost -

“You look like you’re thinking too hard,” Jon said softly. He had been twisting his silk scarf between his fingers, but as the documentary wore on he had stopped. “Have some wine, we’re here to have fun.”

“Uh. Yeah, sure.” Martin leaned forward and grabbed his almost untouched glass, glancing at the bottle. “Holy shit, is that thing almost empty?”’

“Rich people have excellent tolerances, Martin,” Jon said prissily. But maybe he was lying, because his head was lolling strangely and loosely on Martin’s chest. At one point he had laid his head down on Martin’s chest, his hand lightly lying next to it, the touch both electrifying and soothing to Martin. “Not that I would really know.”

“I thought you were the sole beneficiary of, like, ten wills,” Martin said, faintly amused. The documentary played, unheeded. 

“Oh, there’s having money and being rich. Trust me, I went to Oxford.”  _ Oxford _ ? So much for being stupid, Jon! “Gran bought all my books from the charity shop. I was always burdening her with stuff like that.”

That was vaguely worrying. Martin frowned down at Jon, deciding to leave the wine on the table. “Having books as a kid is hardly a burden, Jon.”

“I was a very annoying child,” Jon said wryly and rotely, as if he had said it a thousand times before. “Is there more wine in that bottle?”

“Uh, not much, but maybe we shouldn’t -”

“You’re very kind, Martin,” Jon said, a second before he kissed him.

And, just like that, everything progressed exactly as it was meant to. Martin was only distantly aware of it all, content to let Jon take the lead. They snogged for a bit, warm and comfortable and absolutely perfect, and Martin found himself gradually falling down on the couch until Jon was on top of him. He easily swung his leg over to straddle Martin, both hands on his chest, hair falling over his ears, expression intent. 

The only point of strangeness was when Martin reached up to put his hand in Jon’s hair, and he found his hand slapped away. He quickly removed it as Jon scowled at him. 

“Don’t touch my hair,” Jon said, somewhat prissily. “You know how long it takes to style it?”

“Uh - sorry?”

“Whatever. Hold on.” Jon slid his scarf off his neck and did something magical and complicated that ended with his hair twisted inside his scarf. “Great, let’s get back to it.”

Well, this was as good of a spot as any. Martin was already feeling bad about the hair thing. “Uh, actually, we should - is there anything else that’s off-limits for you, Jon? I’m okay with whatever you want.”

Jon’s face was inscrutable. At some point, one of them had paused the television, and the room was somewhat dim in the fading light. Jon’s expression wasn’t quite blank, but it wasn’t quite anything else.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe that was the closest word for it - nothing. Not in his face. Not in his eyes. Like a doll, empty. 

“Anything that you want, I want,” Jon said evenly. “Let’s go all the way tonight, I’m tired of waiting.”

The vast majority of Martin’s brain was exploding in excitement. One very small, yet very powerful part of his brain was deeply cognizant of certain death threats. 

“I’m not sure if this is the right time to say this,” Martin said carefully, with what coherence he had left. “But it was...uh,  _ suggested _ ...to me...by...certain parties...that we can just stick to above the belt stuff for right now?”

Jon’s expressionless face, just for a second, cracked in fury.

“Annabelle,” he hissed. “That witch!”

Okay, putting  _ that  _ sibling relationship aside. “It was Agnes and Gerry,” Martin said quickly, who very much did not want to be thinking about Agnes and Gerry right now. “Which, I gotta say, in human culture is  _ very weird _ , but for monster culture maybe -”

“So  _ that’s  _ what they were up to,” Jon muttered, if only to himself. His expression snapped back to Martin, something intent and focused in his eyes. It was single-minded and fervent, as if all he was thinking about was Martin. It was also super fucking hot. “I’ll deal with them later. Nobody has the right to decide what I do with my life except for me. Fuck Tim and Sasha too.”

“Wait,  _ Tim  _ and  _ Sasha _ ? When did you -”

“They don’t get a say in this,” Jon whispered furiously. “Nobody gets a say in this! Just  _ relax _ , Martin!”

Then everything was back in motion, and Martin was lost in everything else. At one point his shirt came off - Jon’s never did, it just rode up - and there was something furious and intent in the way Jon kissed him, kissed his neck, touched him. 

The only strange part - the only strange thing all night, the only strange thing about all of this - was that when Jon went for Martin’s belt, his hands were shaking. Jon’s face was flushed and hot, staring at his belt buckle like it was a particularly frustrating puzzle, but no matter how desperately he pawed at it his hands were just shaking too hard to do it. 

“Uh,” Martin said, hating to talk again, “Jon, I can -”

“No!” Jon snapped, and something in his clearly tipsy voice was so harsh that Martin almost recoiled. “I can do this!”

But Jon was trembling even harder. Almost his entire body was shaking, harsh and uncontrollably. It wasn’t the faint tremble Martin got when he was anxious, or cold shivers - it was a deep, wracking, full-body shake. Martin hadn’t heard it before over his own labored breathing, but Jon was breathing strangely too, sucking in harsh breaths too quickly and exhaling too shallowly. 

Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Martin dragged his brain down to earth. 

“Jon, please get off me.”

It was quite possibly the hardest sentence Martin had ever said in his entire life, but he said it. It was impossible not to when he looked at Jon. His expression flashed in indignant rage again, something wild and desperate about it. “Why? Am I doing it wrong?”

Am I - how could he not know? “You’re fine, just - Jon, get off, please.”

Jon scrambled off, almost tripping on his own feet. When he was standing it was clearer that he was drunk - not drunk enough that Martin was reasonably sure that his judgment was impaired, but enough that it betrayed his nerves. Martin began to have a bad feeling. 

No, he’s been having a bad feeling for a while. He had just been ignoring it. 

“What am I doing wrong?” Jon said crossly. “Is this about my stupid fucking family again?”

How could he not  _ know _ ? Martin sat up, sighing heavily, and resigned himself. He grabbed his shirt and tugged it on, ignoring Jon’s upset squawk. “You’re too drunk, you’re obviously too nervous to keep going, and I’m just - I’m just getting the wrong signals from you, Jon. I don’t want to do this.”

Something strange happened to Jon, then. Something that made Martin realize he had never seen it before. It was strange, almost undefinable. Something about it was far deeper and stranger than horror. 

“You don’t want - you don’t  _ want _ ? Why? What did I do wrong?” Panic clearly bloomed, and Martin could only watch in perplexed awe. “Is it because I’m ugly? It’s because I’m ugly, isn’t it. I  _ knew  _ it, I knew it -”

Holy shit. Martin stood up, uncertain if he should come closer to back away. Jon was biting his fingernails now, eyes skittering. “Jon, I - you’re very beautiful, I swear, but something about this -”

“It’s because I’m annoying, isn’t it,” Jon said, voice rising in pitch and tone. “You think I’m obnoxious. I knew it, everybody thinks I’m annoying. You could have just said so, I could have fixed that -”

“Jon, what the fuck -”

“Was I not  _ honest _ enough?” Jon was well and truly growing hysterical, and Martin felt so incredibly unprepared for this situation. “What did you want? Is it because I insulted your friends? I’m sorry! I don’t get it, you obviously want to fuck me! What’s wrong!”

What was wrong? What was wrong with him? Was it something Martin had done, some way Martin had misstepped - or was it just Jon? “This isn’t about any of that, it’s not about you, it’s just -”

“Of course it’s about me!” Jon was hyperventilating now, voice high pitched and hoarse. “You’re - you’re lucky, you know that? Anybody would want -  _ everybody  _ wants - but I’m not good enough for you all of a sudden? Is that it, are you too good for me?”

Martin began to have the creeping sensation that the situation was very different than he had thought it was. “Jon, this isn’t about any of that. You just seemed scared.”

“I’m not scared!” Jon yelled, terrified. “I thought you wanted me! You said that you wanted me! Why don’t you want me?”

“Jon, please calm down.” Martin wanted to step forward, to try to reassure him, but he was frozen in place. He didn’t know the right thing to do anymore. He didn’t know what was going on. “I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink, let me call you a cab -”

“You hate me!” Jon yelled. “I  _ knew  _ it!”

What the fuck? What the fuck was with this guy? He must have been too drunk, or maybe he had been so nervous that he had turned it against Martin, or -

Or maybe this was that real Jon that Martin had been searching for all along. The man underneath all of those masks, the human hidden inside the monster: a painfully insecure, paranoid, frightened man.

No wonder, Martin thought dully. No wonder. Of course he would hide that. That was all anybody did. Everybody was insecure and scared. Everybody hid it in their own ways. Jon was simply supernaturally successful at it - spinning an idealized, perfect self, a persona so carefully crafted to be likable to everybody because he was convinced that he was likable to nobody. 

And Martin had rejected even that. So he, obviously, hated Jon. 

“I’m calling you a cab,” Martin said, strangely calm. 

Jon let him, scrubbing at his eyes, and they didn’t say anything more until the cab came. 

When Jon left, leaving empty wine glasses and half-empty pints of melting ice cream behind, Martin was stuck standing in the middle of an empty flat, stunned. 

And no matter how many times Martin woke up in the morning and mourned his empty flat, no matter how many nights he spent alone and long days stretching in front of him spent with nobody but himself, he suddenly didn’t mind at all. 

It was better than Jon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So well how do you think a supernaturally empathetic man with very severe rejection sensitivity, who'd never been rejected since he was fifteen, would handle rejection lol. 
> 
> CW: There is no R-rated sexual content. Jon and Martin get to second base before they stop all sexual activity. Jon drank a little to calm his nerves, but his judgement wasn't impaired and he was able to give consent.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The house always wins.

**Day 9 (Jon)**

Georgie asked no questions.

He showed up at her flat at ten at night, crying quietly but severely, and silently let him in. She let him take a very long, very hot shower, passed him some over-large pyjamas that had to be from some ex or another, and ignored her girlfriend’s boggled stare as she sent him off to sleep in their bed. 

Part of him just wanted to be glad that she wasn’t interrogating any further. Most of him knew that this meant that she had known that this would happen from their conversation yesterday, and had just been waiting. 

Jon just lay in bed, heart thumping in his chest. It was stupid. He felt like he had just ran a marathon, or climbed up a tree to escape a cheetah. Adrenaline was coursing through his system, fighting with the alcohol, leaving his head swimming and nauseated and dizzy and scared. 

He fell asleep soon afterwards when his heartrate died down, since there was really nothing else he wanted to do. 

He woke up at some indeterminate time, the room still shrouded in darkness. When he blearily blinked at Georgie’s cute little Pikachu alarm clock - aw! - he saw that it was only four am. His mouth felt like something died in it and his throat was practically closing up with thirst, and most of him felt so guilty that he was sleeping in the only bed in the flat that he managed to stumble to his feet. He was able to recognize that he wasn’t drunk anymore, but he was pretty hung over.

He stumbled into the bathroom, pissed, and found himself slumped over the sink as he stared at himself in the mirror. The sink was crowded with Georgie’s own haircare products and lotion - practically unchanged from before her girlfriend moved in, she must be butch - and there was a cute little rubber duck holding toothbrushes. Jon reflexively critically judged Georgie’s skincare, for no reason other than habit. It was still excellent. He had taught her well. 

When Jon looked in the mirror, he saw himself. Despite everything, and perhaps only to himself, that person was always achingly familiar. Jon stared and stared at himself relentlessly, and always had. Fix this, primp that, curl this, moisturize that, wasn’t this wrong, didn’t this look bad, how can we fix that? Hours and hours, just spent  _ staring  _ at himself, trying to beat himself into a shape that fit. 

Himself. Completely fucked up, and  _ not  _ in the hot ‘just fucked’ way that he had spent hours trying to imagine himself looking like. He had that familiar post-drunken slump. He had slept in this clothing, and it was rumpled and creased. His scarf was somehow still draped over his neck, untied and limp. His hair was in a state best left unremarked upon. 

He looked terrible. People always noticed how he looked. Everyone always thought he was vain, always pinching and prodding at his appearance, but they didn’t know what strangers thought when they looked at him. It used to make Jon’s skin crawl, the way everybody remotely into men looked at him and thought the same thing, all of them...he got used to it, after a while. He had told himself that he liked it, that it made him feel good. Maybe it did - why else would he work so hard to stay attractive?

As if it meant anything, or as if it mattered, Jon tried finger-styling his hair. He could steal some of Georgie’s gel, try to put it back in shape…

Jon let his hand fall. No point. 

In the mirror, Jon saw himself. So much as ‘himself’ existed. A cruel, shallow airhead. Self-absorbed and self-obsessed. Relentlessly teased but couldn’t even fucking put out. Killed probably more people than was moral, but Jon had always considered himself somewhat exempt from morality. Desperate for attention and affection and self-worth, found only in adventures and escapades and men and women. Couldn’t commit. Couldn’t do difficult things. Cried all over people when he didn’t get his way. Couldn’t even pretend to be human, not for one night. 

Well, this wasn’t productive. Jon snapped his fingers, and the hangover went away. Spider powers. Always came in handy. 

But when he stepped into the hallway, he saw that the light in the living room was still on. He poked his head in, and saw that Georgie and - what was her girlfriend’s name? Melanie? - Melanie were still up talking, Georgie relaxing on a couch and Melanie sitting with her legs tucked underneath her in an armchair. Melanie had long coppery, unbrushed red hair and a ruddy face. She wasn’t skinny, and was wearing a boring hoodie and sweatpants. But she had a kind face, and Jon sensed what Georgie saw in her. She looked like she got into fights on Twitter.

They both stared at him when he walked in, and Jon defensively folded his arms across his chest. He knew how terrible he looked, but he didn’t really have the energy to care right now. First time for everything. Melanie was gawking at him just a little, but Georgie just smiled weakly at him. 

“Sorry, did we wake you?” Jon shook his head silently. “Do you need some water or an ibuprofen?” Jon shook his head again. “You can come sit with us, if you want. We’re just complaining about Boris again.”

“I have some blackmail on him if you like,” Jon volunteered, and Georgie rolled her eyes as Melanie goggled a bit. But Jon didn’t have the energy to do anything else, and he didn’t particularly want to go back to bed, so he ended up folding himself onto the couch next to Georgie. Not very close, about a meter away. She seemed to notice. 

They nattered on a bit longer, clearly making an effort to keep things from getting weird, and Jon focused on fixing his hair. He was missing all of his product and everything, but he at least could go back to wrapping it. He wondered idly what Gran would think. Wear your hair like a man, cut that off, blah blah blah. Jon wasn’t a man, he was a spider. Not a human; a monster. That created its own problems with his self-image and self-esteem, but it had been great for his gender expression. 

It didn’t matter what Gran would think, anyway. She would never recognize him. He made sure of it. 

“Do you want any help with that?”

Georgie was smiling at him, with Melanie awkwardly sipping her tea. They had used to do each other’s hair a lot. It had always been comforting and fun. But today Jon found himself flinching away, skin crawling, and Georgie’s smile turned into a frown. 

“It’s fine,” Jon said curtly. Melanie politely excused herself to the kitchen, putting the kettle on for more tea. 

“Please tell me to shut up and fuck off at any time,” Georgie said, voice still impossibly soft. “Seriously. But...if something happened…”

“Nothing  _ happened _ ,” Jon snapped. “That’s the whole fucking problem, isn’t it!”

The flat was silent, Jon breathing heavier than he wanted. He wanted to wind it back in, to find that control and that image and that perfection, but it eluded him. It was like trying to hold water in cupped hands, or catching a slippery trout in a stream. It just escaped, every time. 

“If you want to talk about it,” Georgie said, “I’ll listen. No judgement here. I know absolutely nothing about the situation.”

“I barely even know who you are,” Melanie volunteered, before realizing what she had said. “And, uh, I’ll go edit in my room with my headphones on blasting heavy metal, if you want.”

The earnestness and awkwardness made Jon laugh a little, scrubbing at his eyes again. It was true, wasn’t it? Georgie wasn’t someone he needed to impress. There was no reason. There was nothing he needed or wanted from her, and there was nothing Georgie wanted from him except whatever he wanted to share. 

It was a little nice. 

“Can I have some tea?”

He got tea. With lots of milk and sugar. It was four am, and the world was strange and quiet. It was as if they existed in a bubble beyond time and space, where nothing outside could interfere. It was just Jon, Georgie, and Melanie, and there was nobody Jon needed to be. 

“I’ve never dated anybody I liked,” Jon said finally, hands wrapped around the warm chipped white mug. “So it always made sense to me that I didn’t want to have sex with them. I was just using them, they were just using me, no problem. I could usually manipulate the situation so it wasn’t an issue. I’m really good at that. Nobody had to know. It was this...ugly, bad thing inside of me, but so was everything else about me, so nobody had to know.”

Jon traced the rim of his mug with a finger, watching the steam slowly dissolve into the air. “But then I met a guy I actually liked, and... _ everybody  _ told me one thing. Everything in this world told me one thing. I’ve only ever heard one thing in my life, like an awful drum beat keeping time to this perpetual tune. That you’re unlovable without this. And there were already a lot of reasons why I’m unlovable, so...don’t need one more. And I tried really hard, and I put all of this effort in, and I did everything right, but it wasn’t enough…”

Embarrassingly, Jon found himself crying again, and he masked it with a sip of his tea. “I shouldn’t have even tried. I can’t be me. There’s nothing desirable about that person. That was the problem. That he saw me, and that he hated it…”

He trailed off, incapable and unwilling to say anything more. When he glanced up at Georgie, he saw that she was carefully concealing absolute shock, but Melanie just looked thoughtful. There was no artifice to her, everything in her body language a clear and obvious reflection of her thoughts. 

“Hey, what’s your name again?” Melanie asked.

Jesus. “Jon,” Jon said flatly. 

“Right. So, Jon, now that we’re all gathered here, I’d like to say something.” Melanie turned to Georgie, expression very intense. “Georgie, you’re a wonderful girlfriend and I love you. I, however, do not want to have sex anymore. It is now permanently off the table.”

Both Jon and Georgie were similarly shocked by this, but Georgie just ended up nodding dumbly. “Uh, alright? I love you too. That’s no problem.”

“Great.” Melanie turned back to Jon. “That was a totally made up scenario, and you obviously know that. But I’m like 99.9% sure that if I ever actually said that to Georgie, that’s exactly what she’d say. We’d have to talk about it like adults, but she’d never do anything that would make me uncomfortable. How do you think she’d feel if I didn’t want to have sex and we did sex anyway?”

“I’d feel terrible!” Georgie said heatedly. “I’d never forgive myself!”

Melanie snapped her fingers. “Right! I mean, I’ve only ever loved Georgie, who’s perfect and impeccable. But that love has nothing to do with whether or not we have sex. And our relationship isn’t, like...built on the sex. It’s nice? It’s a good bonding thing and it makes me feel special. But, like, if the sex was good and everything else was bad, I’d still break up with her. You know?”

“Same here,” Georgie said firmly. “I’d date someone who would never have sex with me. I’d marry them, too, if we wanted. We could have kids, or we wouldn’t, whatever. We’d have to talk about it and communicate and figure stuff out, but it wouldn’t change anything important. And I’d never think less of anybody just because they didn’t want to do that.” Georgie frowned. “And that doesn’t make me or Melanie some kind of...magical special people for putting up with that. There’s nothing to put up with. It’s just a fact, and a condition for the relationship. Somebody doesn’t meet that condition, you say bye-bye. It’s not complicated.”

Jon sat in shock. 

“Uh,” Melanie said, after a second staring at his slack jaw, “has nobody told you this?”

But, of course, nobody had. Jon didn’t need to say it. He sat there drinking his tea in total shock, reconsidering his entire life, unable to reconcile what he had seen as a baseline universal truth with two people who did not accept it.

And they said it as if it was so  _ normal _ . As if there were more people like them - people all over the world, who thought that way. Jon knew plenty of people who felt the opposite - men in locker rooms saying that they’d never date a girl bad in bed, frat brothers at parties telling each other to break up with a girl who was no longer putting out, tittering women who complained that their boyfriend had no time for sex so they were dropping him. Hundreds of people saying one thing, and two people saying something else.

But it was an  _ option _ ?

“I’d like to go back to sleep,” Jon said dizzily. “Do you two have a futon, or…?”

“Oh, we’ll take the futon, use the actual bed,” Georgie said. “We’re going to stay up talking for a bit. Work from homers have the worst sleep schedule in the world.”

“I can send you some FAQs on asexuality!” Melanie volunteered.

“Don’t...really know what that is, but whatever,” Jon said. He halted, unable and unwilling to say almost anything else. “Thank you.”

“Trust me,” Georgie said, “I really didn’t do anything special.”

“You did,” Jon said, with as much sincerity as he was able to give. “Thank you.”

Then he went back to bed, and slept until late in the morning. 

  
  
  
  


**Gerry:** hey are we expecting you back tonight?

  
  


**Agnes:** is everything okay?

  
  


**Annabelle:** LMFAOO GO GETTEM

**Annabelle:** good on you nerd go get that bread

**Annabelle:** why did u take out all my spiders i wanted those :c

**Annabelle:** ur disrupting native ecosystemssssss

**Annabelle:** Monster.

  
  


Jon slid through the front door to his flat at noon, sweating bullets, well aware what this looked like. 

Great. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he really would have to take care of Agnes and Gerry and their communication issues. He had to take care of him and  _ Martin _ , and their communication issues. Or maybe Martin would just do the easiest thing for both of them, and he’d say that he wanted to break up, and Jon would never have to think about terrifying things or feel terrifying emotions anymore.

Jon really didn’t want to have to be the mature one here. If he just told Agnes and Gerry that nothing happened, then they would be happy…

Jon wasn’t happy. Jon had a lot of stuff to think about and he wanted to do it alone, without any haranguing him about his love life or his personal life or any sort of life at all. Unfortunately, that was impossible today for two reasons. 

The first reason was evident the minute he stepped through the door. Agnes was sitting at the kitchen table making a phone call, writing something down on a piece of legal paper, and Gerry was sitting at the couch doing some work on his laptop. It wasn’t unusual for them to both do their work in the main area, but there were two home offices in this flat for a reason. 

Both of them froze when they saw Jon, eyes wide, and Agnes’ pen clattered to the table. She muttered something into her phone and ended the call, and Gerry sat upright and closed his laptop, eyes wide. 

They both looked really worried. If Jon bothered to look harder, if he put all of his energy into deciphering their minds as easily as if they were his own, he’d see why. He could have, at any time, but he had chosen not to. Or maybe he was incapable: it was impossible to divine information you didn’t really want to know in the first place. 

Abruptly, strangely, Jon just felt tired. He wanted to yell at them for disrespecting him, he wanted to cry about his terrible night, he wanted them to know the world-shattering conversation he had with Georgie. But instead he just felt tired, and he missed his friends.

“Don’t say it,” Jon said quietly. His white scarf was crumpled in his hand, and he was still dressed in his rumpled outfit from yesterday. He knew he looked like a mess. “Just...don’t say it.”

The next thing he knew, Agnes was flying towards him, and he almost toppled backwards as she grabbed him in a fierce hug. She was almost as tall as he was - and hadn’t that been a strange moment, when he had outgrown Agnes - and her orange hair tickled his nose. She squeezed him tight, letting Jon bury his head in her shoulder, and something in Jon unwound. 

Then Gerry was there too, arms slung around the both of them, and Jon let his other arm fall around Gerry’s shoulder. He smelled more familiar than anyone else, the heavy tones of cologne and old books and their own home. 

The group hug was hardly new to any of them. When was the first time? When they had dragged Jon out of that gutter? When Gerry had sat crying on the couch about his Mum pronouncing him dead? Or had there never been a first, just an endless road of a life lived together? 

Embarrassingly, he found himself crying again, but it wasn’t as if either of them had never seen him cry before. The tears sizzled on Agnes’ shoulder, as they always did, and the little hint of ridiculousness was their cue to separate and laugh a little. 

“Don’t bug him about this,” Jon said finally, the only thing that he needed to say right now. “None of this is his fault.”

Gerry’s expression darkened a little, and he crossed his arms. “Think  _ some  _ of this is his fault.”

“Then the rest of it is mine,” Jon said impatiently, and Gerry shut up. “Are you going to shame me over this too?”

“No! No, Jon, of course not.” Agnes kicked Gerry in the shin until he flushed and nodded quickly. “We just knew that Martin boy didn’t really understand the whole situation, so we wanted to help -”

“You are ashamed of me,” Jon croaked, and to his horror and lack of surprise he found himself crying again. “You do think I’m stupid.”

“Jon, please -”

“ _ Nobody  _ has let me make a single decision for myself around here.” Despite how hard he was crying again he found himself almost calm. There was nothing pressured or hysterical about it - just a loud and pathetic sadness, silent for years. “Annabelle’s on one of her manipulative streaks and you two are running around trying to fix my life for me because you don’t trust me to do it. The  _ only  _ person - he paid attention to what I wanted, even when I refused to tell him...”

Only Martin had let Jon make his own decision, before making his own. Walking into that flat, Jon had convinced himself that there was no choice, that this was something he  _ had  _ to do so he could secure what he had set his sights on. But Martin had known, even when Jon couldn’t say it, and had stopped the whole thing so they could talk it over first. 

Before Jon went insanely, embarrassingly hysterical, exactly as vapid and shallow and fucking bimbo as he had always pretended to be, and ruined everything. Hot shame and embarrassment was burning Jon alive. 

He  _ did  _ want Martin to respect him. He always had. He had just refused to admit it, because he had assumed that he never would. But now Martin would definitely never respect him, would never think of him as more than a pretty face who wouldn’t even  _ fucking put out _ , and no matter how much Jon wanted -

Wanted?

“You’re right, Jon. I’m sorry.” Agnes’ voice broke him out of his crisis on crisis, and she looked somber even as Gerry was crossing his arms defensively behind her. “It’s just that...we knew this would happen. That you’d be hurt. And we were scared. I’m sorry, we shouldn’t have acted out of fear, but...I couldn’t help it. I love you so much, Jon, I can’t bear to see you sad.”

“You knew that we’d break up over this?” Jon asked archly, scrubbing at his eyes. 

“Kinda,” Gerry said flatly. “One way or another, it wasn’t happening the way you wanted it to happen. We knew that this would hurt you, and we just wanted...to stop it before it hurt you. We love you, it sucks seeing you upset.”

“I love you guys too.” Jon took a deep, useless breath, exhaling softly. “And I  _ really  _ don’t want to look at either of you right now.”

This time, it didn’t feel so much like he was stomping off to his room. It felt more as if he was taking his space. He’d be back, probably within the hour, but right now Jon just wanted to take another shower and change into clean clothes and maybe cry a  _ little  _ -

“Told you so.”

Jon jumped.

Annabelle had been there the whole time, leaning against the back hallway wall. From the living area it was pretty impossible to see her. She was standing where the light from the living area didn’t reach, and Jon could faintly see her extra eyes glimmering. 

“I do not need your peanut gallery commentary on this,” Jon said flatly. 

“But you love it so much,” Annabelle teased lightly. Her arms - all eight of her arms - were folded over her chest, and her fingers were drumming a soft beat against her forearm. “How did it go? I told you it wasn’t as bad as you were worried about. It’s just super boring, honestly. The hardest part is pretending you like it.”

“Annabelle, this is none of your business.”

“Of course it’s not! This is extracurricular.” Annabelle stepped forward, a sly smile lingering on the corners of her face. “Come on, how’d it go?” Her smile widened and grew slyer. “Or did it  _ not  _ go?” Jon looked away, expression tight, and she laughed. “Wow, bet  _ that  _ was a disaster. How dramatic was it? On a scale of, like, the one time you ran off with your new guy while your old one was in Argentina to the one time you broke up with a girl so dramatically the entire cruise ship was watching? If he was a bitch about it, just say the  _ word _ , we can go Carrie Underwood on his arse.”

It was without conscious control from Jon. Like he was a teenager. One of Jon’s extra arms - prehensile, long, and powerful - lashed out from his chest, and impacted the wall  _ hard _ . The wall cracked sharply, and plaster rained down from the point of impact. Annabelle jerked back, hard - she hadn’t known him before he gained control. After he gained control, nobody ever saw it. Nobody who lived very long, anyway.

“You  _ wanted  _ this to happen.” 

Annabelle didn’t even react. She didn’t even care. She crossed her arms again, as if Jon was the one who was being unreasonable. “Of course I did. The other outcome would have worked too, but I do have to say that this is my favorite one. This betrayal’s gourmet. Can I let the spiders eat him now? You  _ do  _ want him eaten by spiders, right? We can even feed him to Mother, if you want to go all Midsommar -”

“If you touch him,” Jon said, strangled and furious, “I’ll kill you.”

Annabelle gasped in indignation, but before they could erupt into one of their famous screaming matches they both heard a very loud gasp coming from the hallway entrance. 

“ _ What  _ is - “

Agnes halted at the arched hallway entrance, taking in the scene instantly even as Jon quickly retreated his arm and dropped it back out of physicality. She seemed to see something Jon didn’t, because her expression hardened fast. “Annabelle, get over here.”

“But  _ Agnes _ -”

“Now!”

Annabelle went. Jon sighed and finally opened the door to his bedroom. He didn’t have very long to rest. There was planning, organizing, dressing, hosting, dancing, and fun to enforce. 

They, after all, had a party tonight. 

And Jon collapsed on his bed, staring at the ceiling, silently willing himself to get up and help with the last-minute arranging and organizing for the grand annual ball that Annabelle had worked so hard on. He would in a second. Just give him a minute. He needed to think. Jon was stupid, and he hated thinking, but he had to. Maybe he wouldn’t be in this situation if he thought just a little bit more. 

For the first time in a very long time, Jon let himself think about what he wanted. 

And he thought about it, and thought about it, and kept on thinking right up until Agnes called him to help with the party. 

  
  


**Day 10 (Martin)**

  
  


Martin was not going to the party tonight.

Nope! Just...nope, not touching that. Martin needed at least a week to even process what had happened two days ago, much less attend the ridiculous fancy dress ball in honor of a giant spider where everyone in attendance will be evil. 

Who even did that? Just make parties  _ only for evil people _ ?

Well, Canary Wharf bankers, but the point still stood. Fuck Annabelle and her ridiculous bet. Martin didn’t need the true name of Jon - he saw it on his face, clear as day. Martin had seen the human inside the monster. 

There had never been a monster at all. Just a human, desperately pretending. 

Jon had never been a monster. He had just been a person, with all of the same fears and anxieties and imperfections as Martin. Martin had never really wanted honesty, not really - he had just wanted the feeling of it, the requisite step before  _ real  _ love and  _ real  _ June wedding and  _ real  _ cottagecore honeymoon. Because all of those things, of course, existed, and Martin was the one person in the whole wide world who had never idealized Jon. He had never made him out to be who Martin wanted instead of who he really was. At real honesty, Martin had balked. At real intimacy, Martin had obviously done  _ something  _ to send his partner into a panic attack. 

Hey, at least it wasn’t all bad! Martin had finally stood up for himself! He had finally taken charge, set his boundaries, said what he wanted and then took it. At the low, low cost of clearly violating someone else’s boundaries. Martin didn’t know how, or what was going on there, but there was something Jon wasn’t telling him. Maybe Martin, who never let on what was happening inside his head, was a hard person to trust.

Intimacy issues aside, Martin wasn’t going. The shiny embossed invitation crumpled and dumped on his nightstand read out that the party started at 6:00. It was 5:20, and Martin was going to spend the entire night watching mindless telly and trying very hard not to think about his life at all.

Sasha hadn’t been very happy that he told her and Tim that under no conditions was he going to the party, shortly before the conversation got derailed by a lot of venting about Martin’s terrible date. (Tim had sent a lot of grimace emojis and Sasha had wisely said ‘ hermana sali de ahi’ , which Martin had the sense was very insulting). They were both very supportive reactions but very misunderstanding of the nuance of the situation! Martin hadn’t  _ wanted  _ to dump him!

Had he dumped him? Was that what had happened? Martin had assumed so, or at least assumed that Jon would dump him immediately, but Jon hadn’t texted. Martin didn’t want to either.

What was there to say? What had happened was Martin’s fault too. He wanted to make up for it. He wanted to hear Jon’s side of it, finally give him the time and space to express himself when he felt ready. When he found out what he did wrong, he could apologize. That was what you did, when you cared about someone. Maybe. Martin didn’t care about a lot of people. 

He should probably do the rational thing and see this as a ‘red flag’ or whatever, but Martin had never been very rational when it came to people that he cared about. He could hardly hate somebody for working themselves into a panic attack - but there was not being honest and then there was not being honest about  _ this  _ \- but it was so obviously not about Martin - it wasn’t as if he could  _ judge  _ someone for being insecure, just for taking it all out on him - Martin felt kind of used -

He didn’t know if he wanted to dump him. Martin didn’t know what he wanted. From the sounds of it, neither did Jon.

At 5:30, Martin had just settled into his sofa with his leftover ice cream when the doorbell rang. Martin’s heart jumped in his chest, his mind somehow irrationally convinced that it was Annabelle here ready to murder him for existing in Jon’s viscinity, but when he rushed to answer the door all he found was Tim and Sasha, in very nice clothing, looking expectant. Tim was holding a garment bag.

“Oh no,” Martin said.

Sasha just looked grim. “Oh yes.”

“I am not coming.” Martin tried to close the door on them, but Tim reached out a foot and jammed it. He looked resigned, as if yet again Sasha had charged off again without listening to reason and he had been forced to tag along to make sure she didn’t accidentally murder herself.

Actually, Martin had the sense that Tim felt the same way about him - that Martin was always making bad decisions without listening to reason, and that he had to chase after him and make sure he didn’t get in trouble. That was rich, considering that Martin felt as if he was constantly constraining Tim and Sasha from being idiots. On second thought, Sasha probably -

Oh, god, Martin thought, with a sickening realization.  _ They were all stupid _ .

Maybe they fit together after all. 

“Yes you are,” Sasha said cheerfully. “Because if your boyfriend’s not going to be any help -” Martin cringed. “ - then I need more primary sources. This party’s going to be chock full of real life acolytes of evil!  _ And  _ there’s going to be a giant spider! We have to go, it’s vital research.”

“Avoiding Mr. Crazy, mate?” Tim asked significantly. 

“Don’t call him that,” Martin said shortly, already reaching out to take the garment bag. Sasha was wearing an ankle-length burgundy red dress slitted at the thigh with squat high heels, looking absolutely stunning, and Tim was wearing an open-breasted sky blue tuxedo. Also looking stunning. When Martin opened the bag, he saw - oh, thank god, it was a nice black suit. Thank god. “If I’m going, then it’s only to stop Sasha from getting eaten by a spider god.” He paused a second, almost guiltily, before deciding royally that he no longer cared. “And I need to talk with Jon, and you two are going to help.”

Tim pulled a face, but Martin glared him into submission. “Do you really want to get back together?”

“None of your business! And I didn’t  _ say  _ that, I just said I needed to talk to him. Which I do. It doesn’t matter if we break up or stay together or stay friends or what, I just need to figure out what’s going on with him. I need to apologize - or  _ he  _ needs to apologize - we need to do something! I can’t let it end like this, all - all muddled.” Martin sighed, infinitely frustrated - frustrated with himself, with Jon, and even with his friends. “He said that you guys told him to stay away from me.”

Both Tim and Sasha abruptly looked very sketchy, which was all the confirmation he needed. 

“In our defense,” Sasha started, “he really is an extraordinarily suspicious -”

“I do not care what you think! You’re not the ones dating him!” Dating? Were they dating? Whatever. Martin shook the garment bag at Tim, offended beyond all words, and Tim suitably looked cowed. “I respect your opinions but you have to respect my decisions too! It wasn’t cool to go behind my back!”

“Sorry.” Sasha twisted the string of her suspiciously bulky clutch bag around her finger. “I got kind of caught up in the mystery and I forgot that this is an emotional thing for you. I do that a lot.” She sighed, almost wistfully. “The apocalypse is never going to happen. This is so lame.”

“We shouldn’t treat you like an idiot,” Tim said firmly. “Whatever you want, we’ll help you and cheer you on. That’s what friends do. I think.”

“Thanks, guys,” Martin smiled warmly. Glad all of that was out in the air. It was funny: it always sucked telling your friends when they hurt you, but somehow it always made all of you feel better too. “We’re just not acknowledging Sasha’s apocalypse comment, huh?”

“This is going to be such a disaster,” Tim said glumly. “Sasha’s going to get eaten by a man eating spider god,  _ you’re  _ going to get eaten by a sexy spider man-eater, and I won’t have any friends left!”

“It’s kind of sad how we’re your only friends,” Sasha said hypocritically.

Martin sighed. He had never really expected them to let him stay home, so he had already showered. “Let me get my coat.”

  
  
  
  
  


The party was held, apparently, in Upton House.

Which was an inconveniently long distance away from London, Sasha was forced to point out. It’s not a private residence, Sasha pointed out, so it’s not as if you can rent it. Honestly, this is two hours away from London, how is everyone supposed to make it at a reasonable time - or so Sasha said. Wouldn’t it make more sense to just rent a ballroom in London, instead of an entire country manor? I toured there one time, Tim said helpfully.

There were directions on the back of the invitation, which Martin made sure to read carefully as Sasha complained about all of this. The instructions said to take a taxi, which Martin hailed as Tim groused, and to give the driver the invitation once you entered, which Martin did as Tim and Sasha bandied theories about the possible reasoning. 

“Wait,” Sasha said, after they had been in the cab about twenty minutes, “why are we taking a cab someplace an hour away? Martin, this is way too expensive -”

“We’re here,” Martin said, as the cab slowed to a stop.

Tim checked his watch. Twenty minutes. Sasha checked her phone. The GPS assured them that they were, actually, in Warwickshire. 

“I hate my life,” Tim said mournfully.

Privately, Martin was getting the sense that Annabelle was a complete drama queen.

The sun was setting on Upton House, illuminating the looming mansion in soft oranges and yellows. The beautiful gardens outside were lightly shadowed, and there was clearly a small area set up behind the mansion with fairy lights and tiki torches. The eerie hedge mazes and carefully trimmed roses skeeved all three of them out, and Tim carefully shepherded them to stay on the main path inside the house. They melted into the thin stream of people in ballgowns and suits into the mansion, skin crawling. 

Inside was even more uncomfortable, on almost every level. In another situation Martin would have been touring the mansion with a small group, in awe of the paintings and vaulted ceilings and rich history. Today, he just felt impossibly awkward, the decadence suffocating and the company disturbing. Everyone around him  _ looked  _ normal, a diverse group of old and young of many different races and expressions. Not all of them looked as ostentatiously rich as Jon, although they were quite a few. In fact, some of the partygoers were in cheaper suits than Martin’s, looking squirrely. 

Well. Spidery. Many of them looked spidery.

An open doorway obviously lead into a chamber with gorgeous artwork on the walls, and Tim had to grab Sasha’s collar to stop her from tearing inside. “We are  _ sticking together _ ,” Tim hissed. “You don’t know how many things here will mistake you for a meal!”

“They have Adoration of the Kings, Tim!” Sasha wined, having clearly weighed the pros and cons of seeing art and getting eaten and coming down on the side of art. “There’s an El Greco!”

“And you are El Getting out of there,” Tim said firmly. He gave Martin the stink-eye too. “And if you even  _ think  _ about running off to go snog your crazy boyfriend, I’m stuffing you in the trunk too.” He carefully released Sasha, who fixed her hair and scowled. “Let’s go find food. Actually, wait - no, we don’t know what’s human flesh or not.”

“This isn’t the underworld, you know.”

All three of them jumped a foot in the air, because Gerard Keay had just appeared at Tim’s elbow. He was sipping a flute of champagne, in a sloppy suit and tie, looking tremendously bored. 

“Where did you come from,” Sasha said faintly, before squinting and breaking into a wide grin. “Wait, you’re Gerard Keay! I remember you! You’re the guy who killed his mom, right?”

Jesus Christ, and Martin thought that  _ he  _ didn’t have social skills. Martin face-palmed as Tim looked horrified, but Gerry just rolled his eyes. “I didn’t actually kill her. The cops just walked in at a bad time.”

“How do you get situationally convicted of murder?” Tim asked faintly. 

Abruptly, Gerry looked very sketchy. “The cops are idiots who think that people can’t flay themselves alive. Like, pigs, am I right?” Everybody nodded. He was, in fact, right. “Look, you guys aren’t the only humans here, so don’t sweat. We have this party every year, it’s dull as fuck. It’s really just because Annabelle likes parties. Like, she  _ really  _ likes parties.”

“I thought it was a ritual to summon your spider mother,” Sasha said cautiously, already pulling out her notebook from her clutch -  _ seriously _ , Sasha?

“Not my spider mother, although it might have been an improvement,” Gerry said, drumming his fingers on his champagne flute. Despite his affected boredom, something about him almost seemed a little nervous. “But it’s for multiple reasons. This is a big place to network and make connections. Evil community’s really tight knit. There’s not a lot of events like this - well, I guess EvilCon, but we’re all banned from there -”

“EvilCon?” Sasha asked excitedly. “Like an academic convention for Evil? How do you get an invitation?”

“How do you get banned from an  _ evil  _ convention?” Tim asked dubiously.

Gerry, impossibly, looked even sketchier. “It’s more like an anime convention, and it involved a lot of arson, Jon’s stupidest gambit ever, and a little Gertrude Robinson. Don’t worry about it. Point is, Annabelle likes to draw people into her web. And  _ rest  _ assured, this is the epicenter of her web. Which would be fine, or at least not actively dangerous, if she didn’t hate all three of you.” At the expressions on all three of their faces, Gerry quickly said, “There’s a peace pact! No violence, no evilness, none of that today. Annabelle set it up, she’s not going to break the rules now. But, uh - Sasha, right? Look, you’re looking for information on the theology of all of this?”

“That’s why I came,” Sasha said cautiously, “but if it’s dangerous…”

“No, no! I’m like, the expert in that. Seriously, nobody knows more about it than me.” Gerry smiled encouragingly, and Martin realized that he had never seen Gerry smile before. It abruptly made him seem a lot younger. “Let’s find a table and talk about it. All of the information you need, right here.”

And, just like that, he had her. Tim crossed his arms, unimpressed with the blatant manipulation. “And what about me and Martin?”

“Who cares about  _ Martin _ ,” Gerry muttered, but at Tim’s poisonous glare he winced. He grimaced at Martin apologetically. “I should probably apologize about the other day…”

Martin stared at him pointedly. 

“In my defense,” Gerry said weakly, “Jon’s  _ really  _ oblivious, and he wasn’t going to realize it in time, and really you’re kind of the weak link here…”

“Is there any reason at all,” Martin said crisply, “why you  _ couldn’t  _ bring that up with Jon? Or why you felt the need to pull the self-aggrandizing big brother act where you get to terrorize me instead of actually talking over your concerns with Jon or, god forbid, respecting his decisions?”

Gerry’s silence was incriminating. 

“Right.” A waiter passed by with a platter of champagne, and Martin instinctively grabbed a flute and downed it. “I still don’t know what’s going on. I barely even know what Jon’s supposed to be oblivious about. I’m going to go find Annabelle, and I’m going to ask her a  _ lot  _ of questions, and she’s going to answer if she knows what’s good for her.” He ignored everyone else’s gobsmacked stares. “Tim, you go find Agnes Montague. Please try and get the full story from her, because I’m beginning to realize that we’ve all been working on half the facts this entire time. Sasha and Gerry...you two are not going to talk about anything besides theology, so go have fun. If I die I’ll try to let someone know.”

“Mate, you  _ really  _ don’t want to talk to Annabelle,” Gerry said, distinctly uncomfortable. “Agnes chewed her out bigtime over the shit she’s been pulling with Jon -”

“What shit?” Sasha asked suspiciously.

Gerry grimaced, even more uncomfortable. “Not my place to say. Family issues. But trust me, she’s kind of on the warpath. I wouldn’t tangle with Annabelle in a snit, not even to figure out whatever you and Jon have going on.”

“The weird thing about that,” Martin said pleasantly, “is that I care about Jon more than I’m scared of Annabelle.”

With those objectively overly dramatic parting words, Martin swept away and left his friends behind.

If even existing in this space with two friendly faces and one familiar face was scary, then being alone was terrifying. The mansion was a regular maze, and no matter how many rooms you entered there was still one yet to explore. Antique, tudor era furniture was everywhere, and small tables clearly brought in for the party were cluttered with hor d'oeuvres plates. Martin finally found a room with catering tables, but Tim’s reminders about human flesh kept him steered away no matter what Gerry said. 

Hopefully Gerry and Sasha were having a good time. Genuinely, he seemed like her best bet in finally getting the information she needed. Sasha needed that understanding, if only to get closure on what had happened. She had been obsessed, and her inability to stop had been as much her natural curiosity as it was a strange desperation. 

Tim had been obsessed too. He had come within a hair’s breadth of losing them all, and his protective mothering was worse than it had ever been at work. Maybe even Martin was obsessed: caught up in that memory of a Jonathan Sims he used to know, desperate to find that closure within Jonathan Montague. 

It was almost sad. Three adults who talked a big game and made a big show about having moved on from what happened, ready to start a new chapter in their lives, but they were all obsessed with the past. It was a wound that still bled, and they were desperately looking for something that would patch it up. Maybe that’s all a past was, just wounds.

Martin really didn’t know anything about Gerry and Agnes at all, but he knew it was similar. Sasha had told him enough: that Gerry’s mother had been terrible, raising him in the supernatural young, and now as an adult he was trying to turn that childhood indoctrination into something that made him feel free. Agnes - born into a cult that dictated her fate, breaking free to carve her own destiny and her own family in a bloody swathe. 

Jon. He was happy, Martin knew, and probably as well-adjusted as one could be in these circumstances. But there was so much about him that Martin didn’t know, strange and ugly sides that manifested only when everything else was peeled away. It was as if the insecurity and fear had been hidden so deeply it was now uncontrollable, and when revealed it swelled like a wave. 

Annabelle was no exception. She was acting out, and all Martin had to do was figure out why. Even monsters felt like humans felt. Maybe even especially monsters.

But no matter how many rooms he combed, he couldn’t find her. Wasn’t she the host? Didn’t hosts mingle? Martin had never hosted anything he didn’t know. He and Annabelle were probably polar opposites in every single way, there’s no way he could understand her messed up little thought processes. Really, how could a human ever understand a - 

Martin stopped in the center of an ornate room with rich old men luxuriating on antique chaises. He breathed deeply, exhaling through his mouth, and forced himself to stop and think. He could ask someone where she was - except that would involve talking to one of these freaks, and then it would get back to Annabelle. He had to find her himself.

If he was a mean twenty-something spider lady, where would he hang out in his own party?

Martin groaned. Obviously. 

It took some careful mental mapping, but the exact center of Upton House was a ballroom. Perfect and perfect. He could hear the strains of ragtime piano music echoing from a large archway where two double doors were thrown back. He exhaled heavily again, screwing his courage to the sticking place, and ventured inside the ballroom.

It was incredible. The ceilings were huge, with vaulted arches and a beautiful series of square windows underneath. Yellow lights hung beneath each window, illuminating the ballroom in soft golden light. There was a line of chairs rimming the walls, a serene older man playing a grand piano in the corner, and a few tables at the end, but most of the floor was taken up by people dancing. 

The music was still light and fast, so the dancing was casual and fun. Fast steps, swishing skirts, and the sharp turn of loafers on polished floors were the predominant sights, and Martin watched in awe as the people danced in perfect harmony. It was like they were all stepping in sync, always in tune and in touch, and when Martin stepped backwards he could almost see the pattern they were forming. Synchronized dancers, moving as one in a perfectly elegant pattern. 

And, conducting them all, Annabelle Cane sat daintily in a chair at the center of the back wall next to an ornate door, black eyes glittering as she looked straight at Martin.

“I do so like it when a good plan comes together,” Annabelle said, “don’t you?”

The last time Martin saw her, she was dressed cleanly and prettily in a vintage dress. Today she had pulled out all of the steps to go ‘princessy’ - it was a gorgeous lilac ball gown, strapless with a sweetheart neckline. The top was pure silk while the skirt was heavy on the tulle, with an ornate yet subtle webbed pattern on the bottom. She was wearing a chained silver necklace and matching dripping chain earrings, and her whot elbow-length gloves complemented her dress. Her hair was styled differently than the last time he saw her - still white, but much shorter and prim with a single braid clipped over her head like a headband. 

It was, loudly and pointedly, the outfit of someone who had won.

Something clicked into place in Martin’s mind, a puzzle piece that had never quite fit. The realization was so sublime and simple Martin was surprised he hadn’t thought of it before. It was so stupid, and so obvious. 

“Annabelle,” Martin said flatly, wrestling the realization down. “Get what you wanted?”

“Just about!” Annabelle rose from her chair in a flurry of skirt, walking forward. She didn’t navigate the crowd so much as the crowd split around her, every turn perfectly turned away from her. “Of course, I didn’t get  _ everything _ I wanted. If everything was perfect, we’d have never met you at all.”

“Why do you hate me so much?” Martin asked, despite the fact that he already knew. He tried walking forward too, if only so they wouldn’t have to shout over the music, but the minute he tried stepping on the dance floor the music picked up and everyone was conveniently in his way. When he glanced at the piano, the man was gone - and he saw that it had been a player piano, all along. “I’ve never done anything to you. I’m a nobody.”

“It’s nothing personal,” Annabelle said snottily. “It’s just, you know, your whole species. All you people only want one thing.”

“Do you mean gender?”

“If I meant gender I would have said that.” Annabelle stopped in the center of the dance floor, and the dancers danced around and away from her in a perfect circle. “All you people want is just your cute little lifestyles. The secondary school romances, the nice little unis where we all have nice little majors that get us good jobs. You get the right job and you make all the right friends with the right sort and you all go to the pub after work. It’s asinine.” She sniffed imperiously. “Jon and I were saved from that by Mother. We’re above all that, and you were just trying to drag him down to the mud with you.”

“Aren’t you friends with Gerry?” Martin asked, almost confused. 

But he knew her answer before she gave it. “Gerry left all of that behind him when he and Agnes saved Jon. He’s just as good as a monster. But you -”

“What did he and Agnes save Jon from?”

“God, are you still after his life story?” Annabelle sneered. “Get over it. Jon’s life was miserable and sad before he met Mother, and she saved him. She gave him everything he didn’t have - social skills, likability, talent, money, a family.” Her big grey eyes glittered in the soft lamplight. “That’s what Mother and I can give him. What can you give him? Mediocrity? Banality? A  _ pension _ ? Get over yourself. He’s too good for you, his self-esteem just sucks too much for him to realize it.”

“So you helped him out,” Martin said slowly. “You helped him realize how terrible humanity is. How terrible humans are.”

“He was going to see it sooner rather than later. If he ran off with you, he’d find out eventually.” Annabelle’s eyes glinted a solid, pure, deep black. “I just sped it up a little.”

“And that was why you had me take that dumb bet. So you could rig a game meant to lose,” Martin said, something deep rising in him. “The fairy tale, the stripping away the monster for the human - you knew it would never work. Jon would try and fail to be brought down to humanity. That’s why you made the bet.”

“Of course that’s why I did the bet! All human romances have bets.” Annabelle propped her hands on her hips proudly. “I learned it in the romcoms.”

“What bet?”

At one point during their conversation, the ornate door had opened, and Jon stood in its entrance. He looked great, obviously. Long hair tied back, wearing a pure black suit and a purple tie perfectly matching Annabelle’s dress with a silk white blouse underneath. He looked so innocently confused, glancing between Martin and Annabelle repeatedly as if he just couldn’t imagine them in the same place. 

“Jon!” Annabelle enthused sweetly. It was amazing: one minute she was all cold princess bitch, the next second she was a cute little sister. She beckoned him forward, and when he stepped onto the dance floor she looped her arm through his. She smiled brightly at him, and Jon hesitantly smiled back. “Look who I found!”

“You...did find him.” Jon looked at Martin, somewhat dizzied. Martin had the sense that Annabelle wasn’t normally this nice to him. “I didn’t think he’d come. Sorry, bet?”

Martin opened his mouth to explain, but Annabelle beat him to it. “Oh, when I was giving Martin the invitation we started talking about how there was no way you’d give him your real name. He was so sure he could do it in just ten days, we made a bet on it. Is that why he was asking you all those personal questions?”

Jon’s face slackened in shock, and Martin winced. “It was a bet…?”

This was it. Jon was never going to forgive him after this. Jon had bared his soul to him and now he was going to realize it was all a cheap manipulation, that Martin was a hypocrite. He was self-centered, and self-obsessed, and he hadn’t cared so much about Jon as he had cared what Jon could do for him. How Jon could help him get closure, how he could solve the great mystery of Jon, how Jon could make him feel wanted. Nobody had ever  _ wanted  _ Martin, and he had been addicted to it. He had spent so long trying to get Jon to be honest, and now -

“Hey,” Annabelle said, grinning the widest shit-eating grin Martin had ever seen, “isn’t it a little similar to how  _ you  _ and  _ I  _ bet that you could get Martin to fall in love with you in ten days?”

Jon blanched. 

Martin blanched.

They stared at each other.

Martin tried to feel offended. That explained everything - why Jon had pretended to like him, why he had pressed the seduction angle so hard, why he had moved so fast. It even explained why he has pushed himself into sex when obviously he wasn’t ready - what better way to get a guy to fall in love with you than show him an amazing time?

Martin stared at Jon. Jon stared at Martin. 

“You’re more of a monster than I thought you were,” Jon said faintly.

“You’re more of a human than I thought you were,” Martin replied.

They stared at each other some more. 

“I guess it doesn’t matter anyway,” Jon said. His face was curiously blank, what Martin was beginning to recognize as his face when he wasn’t putting on any specific emotion for anybody. Or, maybe, when he couldn’t afford to let anyone know he was feeling anything at all. “You aren’t in love with me.”

The situation was so ridiculous. Martin wanted to die, and he wanted to laugh, and he wanted to scream. “Can you fall in love with  _ anyone  _ over ten days? I still don’t even know the name of your human self.”

“It’s my name, human and monster,” Jon said. “It was a bit of a trick question.” 

Because, of course, there was no such thing as love tricked out of someone. There was no such thing as a man behind a monster. There was nothing else, but Jon and Martin.

“So I guess I lost the bet,” Martin said.

“Me too,” Jon said. 

Jon. And Martin. And Annabelle.

Who, of course, won. 

Annabelle, who was clapping her hands delightedly, even as one elbow stayed threaded through Jon’s. Every ounce of her radiated smugness. “Guilty! Honestly, boys. House always wins in the game of love. You know it as well as I do, Jon.”

“Yes,” he said softly, “I guess I do.”

“I’m glad I was able to show both of you the truth,” Annabelle said dismissively. “I’ll have to go brag to Agnes later, she was  _ so  _ bitchy about the sex thing.”

“Come to think of it,” Jon said, voice impossibly quiet even through the ragtime piano, “that was your idea, wasn’t it.”

“I was channeling humanity for you, so you’re welcome.” But she glanced at Jon out of the corner of her beetle black eye, and something twisted in her expression that Martin just couldn’t read. “So you aren’t running off with him, right?”

If the expression was obscure to Martin, it was an open book to Jon. He bent down and softly kissed the crown of her head, an impossibly gentle move between two monsters. “Yes, Annabelle. I’ll stay. I’m sorry I made you worry I would leave.”

“You’re forgiven,” she said loftily, as Jon’s eyes glittered beetle-black. “Now clear the dance floor, will you?”

“Of course, sister.”

Martin’s realization, of course, was this: that it had never been about Martin at all. Annabelle’s hate could have happened to anybody: Sasha or Tim or the man on the street. It was about the fact that he had taken Jon away from her. That Jon was turning in a direction she couldn’t follow.

There was nothing Martin could do about this, nobody to save. Nothing to fix. In that moment Jon and Annabelle were each other’s world, and whatever problems persisted had nothing to do with Martin at all. 

Martin couldn’t fix Jon. It was kind of a relief. 

Jon raised a single hand, and every dancer moved in sync with him. Like marionettes dangling on a string, Jon made his hand dance, and the dancers trooped obediently off the stage. They collapsed in the chairs along every wall, and it was only then that Martin heard the cold and echoing gongs of a midnight bell.

Every door into the ballroom burst open all at once. More people filtered in as the clock tolled, silent and precise, and sat down in the chairs until each one was full. If Martin glanced backwards, heart thumping in time with the tolls of the bell, then he could see people teeming behind the doorway, watching the proceedings over fur wraps and glasses of champagne. None of them dared enter. Martin was overcome strongly with the urge to leave, a long-held prey’s instinct, but even when he pushed against the crowd to try and leave the crowd closed against him. Nobody in, nobody out. Even every chair was full, and Martin was left to stand against the only empty patch of wall next to the grand entranceway, unable to tear his eyes away from Jon and Annabelle. 

They stood in the center of the dance floor, unlinking their arms but clasping their hands tightly. They matched each other, somehow perfectly despite every visual difference. Only their eyes were identical, glossed over and pure black, but somehow it was enough. 

No - one other thing was similar. Martin realized that Jon had arranged his hair in a new way, displaying his scalp for the first time, and Annabelle had done the same. They both had thick, cloying strands of white tinging the corners of their scalp, mirroring each other.

The lights flickered, flickering the room in dark-light-dark again. The player piano sped up, its ragtime song sharpening into something closer to screeching, before something cracked and it spilled out infinite rolls of paper, its song grinding to a halt. Fear was rising on Martin’s tongue, thick and heavy with the taste of copper and blood. 

“Thank you all for coming to my darling party!” Annabelle crowed.

“We’re always so happy to have you!” Jon said, with perfectly identical inflection. It was as if they were one person, speaking out of two bodies.

Maybe they were. 

“Mother welcomes all of her guests into her home, and welcomes all of her children home!”

“Mother’s children are here today! Sixty five of her most treasured souls, all brought here together tonight!”

“Sixty five of her eldest children!”

Martin looked around. There could, possibly, potentially, be sixty five other people in this room. They were of all sorts, all ages and types, and nothing about them looked very spidery at all. Except, of course, for their shadows on the wall. 

“But not all of her children are equal!” Jon said, as light and sharp as a radio announcer. “Not every child is equally worthy of love!”

“So few children are!”

“So Mother returns to us today!” Jon said, and something cold and heavy pressed down on Martin’s body. Jon’s hair burst free of its lavender tie, swirling ominously around his neck. His long shadow, cast on the wall in the strange light, warped and deformed. “Speaking to her most loved, to her most cherished, to the most important Eldest Child!”

“We love our oldest brother,” Annabelle said, her identical inflections somehow simpering. “All of Mother’s children love our Eldest Sibling the most!”

“Your Eldest Sibling accepts the responsibility of Mother’s love,” Jon cried, “and her judgement! Your Eldest sibling loves you, and he  _ opens the door _ !”

The heavy presence bore down uncontrollably on Martin, leaving him gasping and almost whiting out from the sheer uncontrolled fear, and both Jon and Annabelle collapsed. 

Everybody collapsed simultaneously. Silk wrapped bodies slid onto the floor, slumping onto the tile floor and lying in a boneless heap. Martin was the only one left standing, pertried among sixty seven bodies, frozen to the floor.

Nothing happened. 

There was no giant spider. There was no human sacrifice. There was just incredible fear, and then sixty seven people passing out. If Martin had been expecting Jon to open a gateway to hell, then he was disappointed. There was nothing around them, and nobody real. 

Then his joints unlocked, and Martin’s heart jump-started, and Martin ran out of the door and delved straight into the crowd, running and running far away from nothing real at all. 

  
  
  
  


**Jon**

Jon woke up, head swimming.

The first person he saw was Annabelle, stretched out next to him. Her eyes were glassy, and their hands were still linked together in a limp connection. He watched life return to her eyes, watching her distant expression fold itself back into Annabelle’s signature irritation.

Then she screamed. 

She rolled over onto her elbows and punched the floor, still screaming. “How! How! After all of that, after fucking  _ everything  _ in the past fucking two weeks, you’re  _ still fucking Eldest _ ?”

Jon laughed, rolling onto his back. He folded his hands behind his head, staring at the vaulted ceiling. It really was beautiful. Pity most of the view was taken up by a giant spider web. “What can I say? I still got it.”

“I hate you! Ugh! I  _ hustle  _ and I  _ grind  _ and I  _ trick you  _ and you always come out on top!” Annabelle punched the ground again, heedless of the hard tile, and angrily bunched up her skirts as she pulled herself to her feet. Jon watched her out of the corner of his eye, faintly amused as he saw Annabelle survey the carnage, sneering at their siblings as they woke up. There was a distinct scent of brimstone. “Okay, everybody sound off. Who’s dead?”

Jon sat up, only so he could see who’s dead or not. Sure enough, there was a definite desiccated corpse on one of the seats. Spiders were already eating it, crawling in and out through the ribcage and spinning their webs over the eye sockets. 

“I think that was Tom,” one of their siblings volunteered. Mohammed, maybe? He was crying faintly. “I got demoted to 29th…”

“I’m fifth!” A woman sobbed. “I’m finally fifth!”

“Henrik? Henrik, are you alive?” Another sibling was shaking the shoulder of a semi-comatose man, his arm twisting with spiders that were slowly smelling of smoke. “Uh, Eldest, I think Henrik’s…”

“Yeah, we lost him to the Desolation a while ago,” Jon said clinically. “Fire and spiders don’t do well. Leave him be, either he survives the change or he doesn’t.”

“Five quid that he doesn’t!” A sibling - the new ninth? - cried. 

“All of you idiots shut up!” Annabelle snapped, and the entire room silenced. Some people were crying silently, either in happiness or devastation, and others sat in mute horror. A few were grinning widely, others looked mildly disappointed. “I’m still Eldest Daughter -”

“Fancy way of saying second,” an anonymous sibling muttered. 

“ _ Which is thirty two places ahead of you, Elizabeth! _ ”

“She’s the one who organizes the party and all of us, so she's the Eldest Daughter,” Jon said, too tired to deal with this. He slowly brought himself to his feet, letting Annabelle help him up. “Thanks. Do we have a new third?”

Yasmin raised her hand, very smugly. “Yes, sir.”

“Great. What happened to - ah, unfortunate, very sad to lose Josef today.” Jon pulled his hair back into its ponytail absent-mindedly, struggling to pay attention. His head was fuzzy and weird from his impromptu nap, and his mouth felt like something died in it. “Right. That’s that, I suppose. You’re all still subscribed to the spider newsletter? Any of you not getting it?” Everybody shook their heads. “Wonderful. Good family reunion everyone, it was great to get in touch with Mother again, and I hope you all enjoy the rest of the party! Go raid the open bar.”

One young man sobbed in shock, eyes haunted and wild. “Where’s Mother? She didn’t speak to me! She didn’t say anything, I just - passed out, and I woke up knowing I’m 45th, I didn’t hear or see her…”

“This is your first year, Fred, so I’m giving you a pass, but you really should know this.” Annabelle crossed her arms, drumming her fingers on her forearm. “Mother’s an evil extra-dimensional eldritch fear entity. You think she  _ talks  _ to us?”

Fred gaped. “Then how do we know she even exists? That she loves us?”

Jon shrugged. He felt a little bad for the kid. It was always a hard thing to learn. “We’re all literal spider people, so...have to assume something’s going on.” There was no easy way to break it, no easy way to admit it. It was easiest not to care. “And we don’t know if she loves us or not. It’s more of a feeling. Really, it’s just something we say.”

“It’s about self-love at the end of the day,” Annabelle said philosophically. “We’re done here, meeting adjourned, everyone fuck off. I’m sick of looking at the faces of failures.”

The crowd dispersed - eager to get back to dancing, or just eager to forget what had just happened. The desolate left to drink away their sorrows; the successful left to celebrate their good fortune. It was all the same in the end. At the close of the night, you were left with a room full of drunk people. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Jon looked down at Annabelle, who still looked grouchy. He wished he could give her an answer. He wished that there was something he could point to, some accomplishment or secret reason why Mother always chose him as the Eldest. It made so little sense, why the most human of all of them was always picked as the top monster.

Or maybe it made perfect sense after all.

He stepped away, before bowing and extending a gentleman’s hand to her. She looked at him, surprised, as the player’s piano picked up its waltz. “May I have my lady’s dance?”

She placed her hand in his, delicate and sure. “The gentleman may.”

Annabelle led, because she liked to lead. He let her, both of them stepping rhythmically and robotically in tune with the song. Their siblings were dancing around them, or just swaying, or sitting in a chair getting drunk. Many had left. 

But it felt like it was just Jon and Annabelle, as if it always had been, as if it always would be.

Step, one, two, four. Step, one, two, four. Rote and mindless. 

“Are you going to yell at me too?” Annabelle asked mulishly. Jon’s touch was politely high on her back, and their hands were clasped. “Agnes doesn’t understand. She can’t. We just fuck with each other, it’s our thing. Remember two years back and what you did to my Dungeons & Dragons campaign?”

“We are always pulling each other’s pigtails,” Jon agreed mildly, as they turned on their heels. “But this time was a little bit more than that, I think.”

“Yes, you got all vulnerable and the guy shut you down, tale as old as time.” Her hand gripped his tightly before relaxing. “Are you done pretending to be human now?”

“No,” Jon said softly. He couldn’t lie, not this time. Not to her. “I feel more human than I ever have. Since I was a kid. No - no, I’ve never felt this way.”

Annabelle gaped up at him, eyes wide. Almost hurt. “You’re fucking kidding me! He rejected you!”

“Other people don’t get to decide how I feel,” Jon reminded her. She swept him to the side, and Jon followed her easily. “It doesn’t matter what Martin did or didn’t say. It mattered what  _ I  _ said. I was honest with him. I told him how I felt. I told him when he hurt me. I got - I got my insecurity and fear all over him.” 

“And he  _ hates  _ you for it,” Annabelle insisted. 

But Jon just shook his head. “No. Martin just understood, because they’re emotions he feels too. Everybody feels them. They’re shameful and embarrassing and unpleasant, but - but I like how imperfect they are. I like that I’m imperfect. It feels good. I feel like I don’t have to be the perfect monster, the perfect human, the perfect boyfriend or brother or man - I don’t feel that on my shoulders anymore, Annabelle. It’s nice.” 

She broke away from him, and Jon wasn’t surprised to see that she was upset and trying to hide it. Annabelle was always easy to read. “You’re genuinely trying to  _ fit in  _ with them? Newsflash, brother! They’ll never accept you. Those people, that society - you’ll never be one of them. Go ahead,  _ integrate _ . Pretend that you’ll ever have a normal relationship, that they won’t inevitably tire of someone who isn’t like them. Watch all of them pass you by. Watch them get  _ married _ , have  _ children _ , buy a  _ house. _ ” She was sneering, the idea pure anthema to her. “They’ll get married and forget you exist. They’ll have children and suddenly their entire circle will be mommy groups. You will fall to the wayside and they will  _ pity  _ you. None of them will ever understand what it means to be a monster.” Her lower lip trembled, just a little bit. “Nobody will ever understand you but me. Agnes, Gerry, all of our useless siblings in this house - they might try but nobody  _ understands _ . You said that you understood, Jon.”

“And who planned out our perfect lives, Annabelle?” Jon cried, and he found himself broken-hearted too. Sad that this was the reality she thought she lived in; sad that Jon had always thought the same. “Humans don’t get to decide the life we live. We’ve lived our entire lives only hearing one thing, but - but they were wrong about that.  _ You  _ were wrong. Maybe they’re wrong about the rest of it too. I want this, Annie. You don’t get to take this away because you’re scared. I’m scared too, okay? But this isn’t bad.” 

Nobody, in Annabelle’s life, had ever called her scared. She never had been, or at least had never admitted it. But she had lost all artifice too, in this strange space. Jon was being honest with her, honest as he hadn’t been in a very long time, and it scared her. 

It brought out an honesty in her, which scared her even more.

“So that’s it, then?” Annabelle yelled. “You’re too good to be a monster now? You really hated it that much? Stop it! Stop doing this! What’s so bad about being a monster!” She sniffed, and despite her tight control tears were building in her eyes. “What’s so bad about me? Do you not want me anymore? Do you hate me too?”

“Annie, no. Come on, no.” Jon took her hand again, letting her come back in and opening his arm for a hug. She dived for it, hugging him like she hadn’t since she was much younger, head buried in his chest. Jon put one arm around her shoulders and let one hand rest on the back of her head, surprised at how nice it was. When was the last time they had done this? Had they really grown so apart? “Nobody decides what’s right for us but us. Not anymore. Nothing’s wrong with us. I realized that yesterday, you know? I don’t think there’s anything wrong with us.”

“You’re going to run off and live with stupid Blackwood and adopt children,” Annabelle muttered. 

“Good lord, who would do that? Sounds boring. Who would I steal from.” Jon squeezed her tight, carefully kissing the top of her head. “Accepting something different was never a rejection of you. It’s not one or the other, okay? I can have both, equally. I’m choosing both. I’ll choose you, Annie, every time. Mother didn’t choose you, I did. You’ll never lose me. I love you too much. Come on, don’t cry, it’s smearing your make-up.”

“You’re a bad brother,” Annabelle said into his chest.

Jon couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a terrible sister.”

“Seven other people think that,” Annabelle said dully, turning her head to rest her cheek on his chest. Her voice was still hoarse, but she didn’t seem to be crying anymore. “Seven other siblings hated me so much that they didn’t even care that I died. I lost them all, and all I got back was you.”

“Annie…”

“Everybody moved on with their lives, I guess. Everybody always will. I’m always left behind.” Her voice stopped short, halting. “Can you lose something you’ve never had?”

“I’m worried I just did,” Jon admitted. 

She broke away from him then, scrubbing at her nose. Her cheeks were splotchy and her eyes were red rimmed, and she still didn’t look happy, but at least she wasn’t crying any more. Jon never knew what to do when Annabelle cried. She never did. 

“Don’t let me ruin that too,” she said crisply, before pointing at the door. “I want you to be happy, whatever whatever who cares. Go patch things up with Martin so I can ruin his life again later.”

“I’m giving you a free pass this time because you have abandonment issues or whatever,” Jon said, “but if you bully him again you are  _ genuinely  _ waking up in the bottom of the ocean.”

“Drown me yourself, idiot!”

Everything would be fine between them. Annabelle was just insecure, because at the end of the day she was Jon’s sister, and they were so similar. There were so many things that only they shared. The only people they had ever understood were each other. 

It was ugly and sad and painful, that Annabelle hadn’t been able to hide how much she loved him. 

How stupid! That something as beautiful and kind as love made you feel all of these horrible things. Jon was excited. He wanted to feel all of them, every second of it. He wanted all of the good and the bad. 

If Annabelle had expected to stay stubbornly standing in the middle of her web as Jon abandoned her for Martin, she was disappointed. Jon grabbed her hand, towing her along, and let her face the great and terrible destiny before her, unavoidable and terrifying and overwhelming.

A  _ serious  _ scolding from Agnes. 

  
  
  


Martin was in the gardens.

Flies buzzed around the torches, and fireflies swam drunkenly through the air. The Upton gardens were beautiful, finely trimmed hedges and beautiful bouquets of roses, but Jon had little mind for any of it. He had never really liked gardens, outside of the food they provided for spiders. 

Martin was sitting at the edge of the small patio, sitting on the wood planks but feet firmly in the dirt. He was nursing a drink but not drinking it, content instead staring out beyond the reach of the light into the dark fields beyond. He was alone, and Jon was pathetically glad he didn’t have to wade through his scary friends.

He sat down next to Martin, as close as a friend would, and didn’t say anything. He played with his burst hair tie a little, mourning how terrible he had to look right now, and let the silence stretch. Jon wasn’t a very patient person, but this time he could wait. 

The minute Martin realized Jon was waiting for him, he said something. “Gotta say, I’m kind of disappointed that the giant spider didn’t show.”

“She went out to the corner one day for cigarettes and never came back,” Jon said gravely.

They both laughed, a little awkwardly.

Martin sobered first, expression settling. Jon made an active effort to try not to read it, to not read Martin’s mind no matter how much it would have relieved this pressing social anxiety. The point was the uncertainty. The uncertainty was the  _ point _ . “Putting the Annabelle thing aside...your freakout back then…”

Right. Martin deserved an explanation. “It wasn’t you,” Jon said dully. “I just really,  _ really  _ don’t like sex.”

That could have meant anything, but Martin understood. His eyes widened, just a little, but he didn’t turn to look at Jon. It made him pathetically glad that they could continue staring out into this infinite blackness instead of at each other. “Did I ever say or do anything that made you feel…?”

“No, never you. Just everyone else. It was enough.” Granted, Jon’s a figurative mind reader, so he  _ knew  _ \- but that wasn’t the same as saying it, and that was the important thing. Jon took a deep breath, fighting the jackhammer of his heart. Why were these words so hard to say? “Sex is never on the table for me. Anybody I’m with would have to be alright with me never having sex with them. That’s my boundary, and if that’s a dealbreaker for you then that’s okay, but I can’t engage in a relationship where you would expect sex from me.”

“...did you memorize that?”

Jon sagged. Thank god. “Yes. Georgie helped.”

The important thing wasn’t what Martin said back - if he was okay with it, if he wasn’t. The important thing was that Jon had said it at all, for the very first time, and that this was something he knew about himself now. 

Himself, Jonathan Sims. This was who he was. It was  _ him _ . And it  _ wasn’t bad _ . 

Jon had thought that everything about himself was bad.

He still kind of did. But - well, this was one thing, right? Maybe there were others that he just hadn’t found yet. He’d never know until he tried. 

He almost missed Martin speaking again. “Thank you for sharing that with me.” His voice was even and steady, as if he was picking his words very carefully. “I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t before. A relationship without sex isn’t a dealbreaker for me, Jon. That’s completely unimportant to me.”

For the first time, Jon looked at Martin. And Martin looked at him back. 

Martin looked a little surprised, but that was probably just because of Jon. Jon was shocked, and letting Martin see it. Letting him see everything: his wide eyes, his disbelief, the slight hope that was blooming in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Jon burst out. “I’ve made this all about me, and you got roped into Annabelle’s little temper tantrum. Please forgive her. She...she’s as bad as I am sometimes. If you’re sick of dealing - with my drama, and theatrics, and everything, then I wouldn’t blame you if -”

“This isn’t a one way street,” Martin said bluntly. “The last two weeks have been a product of my insecurities as much as yours. I was - afraid, and lonely, and you were the only hope I could find. I couldn’t help myself, so - so I thought if I just helped someone else, then I would feel okay. I’d feel valued. I thought that if I just  _ had  _ someone, anyone, I wouldn’t be worthless. No one’s ever - you know, love, nobody’s ever -” Martin stopped abruptly, incapable or just not ready to say it, but after a second he spoke again. “But your problems aren’t my problems. And my problems aren’t yours, okay? Jon, my relationship with you has forced me to stand up for myself. To tell others my needs, to make myself heard. Love wasn’t the  _ point _ , you were the point. Finding that out was really good for me. Thank you.” He smiled at Jon, a little lopsided, and Jon’s heart panged. “I think our relationship might be good for us.”

“You - you still want -” Jon opened his mouth, then closed it. Weakly, he said, “It would hardly be a normal relationship.” 

Martin just shrugged. “There’s no such thing as a normal relationship. There’s no...handbook to this. Relationships aren’t one size fits all. They’re just...messy and weird and you have to talk a lot about stuff you don’t want to talk about and do things you wouldn’t normally do. I always thought my perfect relationship would just be all of the good and none of the bad - but you need both. It’s hard, and nobody ever wants it to be hard. But it’s worth it, because you like the other person. And it makes you grow up. Our relationship wouldn’t be normal, but...fuck, what’s normal?”

“I’m a spider person, so I’m not sure,” Jon agreed dumbly. “So...you still like me?”

Martin smiled at him weakly. “It wasn’t about the stupid bet, Jon. That was never why I wanted to spend time with you - and I know it’s not why you wanted to spend time with me. I always liked you. I wanted to try. Your real name doesn’t have anything to do with it. I was being an idiot. Jon Montague, whatever - I’ll call you Jonathan Sims for the rest of our lives if you want, I don’t care. It’s all just you.”

Jon stared at him. 

Martin scowled, flushing a little. “What? No response? I’m kind of baring my soul here, mate!”

Jon’s expression cracked into a grin. 

“What’s so funny!”

Jon couldn’t hold it in anymore - he laughed, long and hard, almost hysterical, and even as Martin yelled at him over what was so goddamn funny he couldn’t stop laughing. Something heavy in his heart had been cut loose, and he was sitting here in the backyard avoiding his sister’s party and all of their friends, and Martin had held Jon’s true name all along, and hadn’t even known it. 

Jon sat there, laughing at his boyfriend for not knowing his name, and he didn’t want to stop.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue left.


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You clicked on this fic for Jonmartin fluff and you got 60k of complex character relationships that resulted in an unhealthy relationship because we Live In A society. You did not get that. But you DID get this very short and cute epilogue, so that makes up for all of it. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading!

**epilogue**

“Oh my god,  _ look  _ at that top.”

Martin automatically hummed, busy typing out a text to Georgie and Melanie setting up the double-date. They were thinking ax-throwing, as bribery to Melanie for agreeing to the double date, but they were all mildly worried that Jon would lose an arm. Apparently he had them to spare, but…

“It’s, like,  _ so  _ not flattering. The drape doesn’t compliment her figure, and that satin is obviously super cheap.”

“Uh huh.”

` “Are you listening to me?”

Martin looked up, meeting Jon’s eyes over the stained wooden table. They were tucked into a corner booth, Jon ignoring his margarita and Martin nursing a pint. The vinyl was flaking and somewhat deflated, and Martin clearly recognized Jon’s ‘I’m slumming it’ outfit of a burgundy button-up and distressed jeans. The indie, hipster bar was lightly crowded with young and hip couples, talking quietly as they waited for the next performer to take the small portable stage. The soft white light left the bar feeling cozy and dim, but not too dark to see each other. 

It was definitely Martin’s favorite place for date night. Last time they had gone to Jon’s pick, which was the Natural History Museum as Jon regaled him with dinosaur facts for three hours straight, almost incessantly. It was hilarious, and incredibly cute. Apparently he had a dinosaur phase - sorry,  _ con _ . Apparently it was a grift that somehow necessitated knowing everything about the Triassic period. Apparently. 

“The woman’s blouse is unflattering,” Martin said automatically, as Jon looked mollified. “Sorry, I’m organizing the double date. Nine on Monday sound good?”

Jon squinted. “Double dates seem like an inane invention specifically designed to render all four parties as unbelievably uncomfortable as possible.”

“Yeah, Georgie wants to see if you’re physically capable of letting on that you’re feeling awkward.”

“I’m being bullied,” Jon muttered, astoundingly hypocritically for a spider king who spent half his time ruining lives. “Are Tim and Sasha coming, or does a triple date break the social rules of how awkward a date is allowed to be?”

“I’m pretty sure triple dates aren’t a thing, and I’m also pretty sure that they still aren’t dating,” Martin said politely. “Don’t tell them, Tim gets pissed when you read his mind.”

“It’s called cold reading and a hyper-empathetic, supernaturally manipulative monkey could do it,” Jon bitched. “Don’t bother, they won’t have time anyway. Sasha’s spending half her time at  _ my  _ flat conspiring with Gerry, which means that a quarter of the time  _ Tim’ _ s at my flat bugging everybody with his stupid ‘morality’ and ‘ethics’ questions.”

That was alarming. Martin had been slightly aware of that - three or four times Martin had dropped by Jon’s only to find Agnes beating Tim in Mario Kart, and it was a little second-hand humiliating to lose in Mario Kart against a octogenarian. But they tended to prefer spending time together at Martin’s flat. Less heckling. 

Also, less of Annabelle standing in front of Martin holding a hyperrealistic plastic doll that looked exactly like him, slowly twisting off the head until it popped. 

Jon was trying to arrange family (and Martin) dinner on Sunday to slowly integrate Martin into the dynamic, like letting the dogs slowly sniff the new kitten through the bathroom door. It was a little depressing that Sasha had been automatically adopted into Jon’s terrible crime family way, way before Martin could even try. Crime family...mafia?

“Wait, am I dating a mafioso mob boss?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jon said, “I’m the mob princess. Annabelle’s the mob boss.”

That was actively, incredibly worse.

But when Jon slid over in the booth to link his arm with Martin’s and lean his head against his shoulder, it was just a little perfect. Pressed up against each other like this, warm and safe and together, there was really nothing else Martin would rather do. 

“Quiet,” Jon said, “someone’s up.”

They sat in silence as they watched the next performer. Martin was most familiar with the slam poetry, and most of the performances were slam poetry, but there was plenty of performance art. Jon and Martin watched with interest as the weedy white guy held out a hacky sack and started kicking it between his heels. Pretty much exactly eighth grade. 

They watched carefully until the man kicked up the hacky sack, somehow significantly, and held it out to the crowd. 

“This,” the man said, “is us. And me? Well. Some have called me Boris Johnson.”

He stepped down from the stage. Everybody clapped. 

The spotlight flickered off, and Jon and Martin glanced silently at each other. They held eye contact for one second, two, before quietly and subtly breaking up into an absolute giggle fit. 

“Oh my god,” Martin breathed, “it wasn’t even in  _ rhythm _ .”

“How far can you stretch the definition of art?” Jon whispered. “Is the hacky-sack, like, Duchamp?”

“Mr. Montague, you plebeian. You don’t understand.” Martin sniffed, putting on a french accent. “It’s  _ avant-garde _ .”

Jon giggled, politely hiding it behind his hand. “No, it’s political commentary! Did you miss the metaphor for Boris Johnson?”

“Oh, was it a metaphor? It didn’t even rhyme!”

That elicited another laugh. Jon tilted his head, whispering in Martin’s ear. “You never recite poetry to me.”

His hot breath tickled Martin’s ear, and he tilted his head slightly to kiss Jon on the cheek. “What poetry do you like, anyway? You strike me as a Yeats person.”

“Who’s he?” Jon asked, almost reflexively. 

Martin pulled his head away and squinted at Jon.

Sure enough, Jon sighed. “The Stolen Child by Keats. It made me cry when I was sixteen. I felt very much like a stolen child.”

“You were,” Martin whispered, carefully disentangling himself from Jon. But he knocked their shoes together anyway - Martin’s scuffed trainers, Jon’s low heeled leather boots - as he smiled at him. “I never recite any poetry to you? I can fix that. I know I have some Yeats off the dome...oh!” Martin snapped his fingers. He had  _ no  _ idea how to do this flirtily or sexily like Jon could, but after a few months both of them had really stopped trying in that area. Nowadays, it was mostly about making each other laugh. “Wine comes in at the mouth, love comes in at the eye. That’s all we know of love, before we grow old and die. I lift my glass to my mouth, I look at you, and sigh.”

He was so absorbed in remembering the poem that he almost missed Jon. His elbow was propped on the table, chin resting on his hand, and he was looking at Martin with something strange in his eyes. It wasn’t foreign - Martin caught Jon looking at him like that sometimes - but Martin had never been able to identify quite what it was.

Well, they had been practicing.

“What are you thinking?”

But Jon just hummed. “I lift the glass to my mouth, I look at you, and sigh.” 

“Oh, was it ‘the’?”

“It’s also ‘that’s all we know of truth’,” Jon said, “not love.” But he smiled a little, with no judgement. “But I suppose there’s little difference, anyway.”

They sat in polite silence as another poet, a young woman with dyed blonde hair, ascended the stage, and watched attentively as she recited a surprisingly heartfelt poem about a coal miner’s union working in tandem with AIDs activists. There was an Elvis Costello reference. 

By the end of it Martin had teared up a little, and Jon was primly sitting next to Martin, holding a crumpled piece of paper in his hands and repeatedly smoothing it out. Fold it up into eighths, unfold it, smooth out the creases, do it again. His lithe and nimble fingers worked precisely, dancing over the folds over the paper. 

When the girl walked back off the stage Martin found Jon moving back to his hair, anxiously primping it and fixing its shape into some subtle difference that was undoubtedly far superior to its current form. 

Jon’s eyes flickered to Martin, catching him looking, and he adopted a plaintive expression. “I still don’t understand artists,” Jon whined lightly. “I dated this ultra-rich art collector for two weeks while Annabelle stole his collection of Monets, and he was  _ such  _ a freak. All of these opinions on Futurism? He kept on wanting to  _ paint  _ me, but, like, where I was a metaphor for the rise of Communism in Soviet Russia?” He looked thoughtful for a second. “That one was interesting, actually. Even if he kept on calling me his ‘muse’ - what, like, I’ve never heard  _ that  _ one before? So I slipped him some stuff and did my spider mojo, and I convinced him that I was, like,  _ really  _ into -”

“Jon…”

“Annabelle thought that one was really funny, but she’s just really into schadenfreude and watching other people humiliate themselves. Speaking of which, we’re having movie night on Monday, it’s really fun. We always kick back with some beers and the CCTV cringe comps she compiles over the week.”

“Jon.”

“She’s been spending a lot of time with Sasha,” Jon said desperately. “I think she and Gerry are recruiting her into our underground supernatural robin hood heist team?” He twined his hair around his finger, increasingly tightly. “I think she’s one of those people who’s lived her entire life wanting to ruin the lives of rich people? I mean, me too, but she’s very intense about it?”

“Jon.” Martin leaned forward and captured Jon’s unoccupied hand in his own, squeezing it tightly, and let Jon’s other hand come down to rest on his. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, you know. We can come back.”

“And listen to these terrible performances again?” Jon joked weakly. He bit his lip hard before forcing himself to stop - ‘chapped lips, can you imagine!’. “Do you not like it when I talk about my exes? Because you got mad when I was texting those guys, or flirting with  _ those  _ guys at the bar, and - I can stop. I mean, I think, I’m not sure, I can’t help it when people flirt with me but I’ve been practicing saying ‘I have a boyfriend’ and I’m growing very talented at it.”

It bothered Martin tremendously in every single way. He was an extremely jealous person, which was not a good match-up with Jon’s casual nonmonogamy. He flirted on instinct, with anybody who looked like they’d buy him a drink. They had eventually agreed that Jon had free range for cons short of anything he didn’t like to do anyway, but to keep it down outside of them. Which was why Martin kept himself very, very out of that side of Jon. But that wasn’t what Martin was worried about, so he opened his mouth to deny it - and then stopped short when Jon gave him an unimpressed look. Mind reader. Honesty. Right. 

So Martin sighed instead. “You’re deflecting. If you don’t want to do this, we can go. If you’re just scared, that’s okay. You can tell me.”

Jon looked away, lip stiff. The paper under his hands crumpled a little in his hands. It was hand-written, so clean and precise it could only have been the last in a long line of drafts. “I want to be the kind of person who does this.”

“You don’t have to be. You can just be you, Jon.”

But Jon just shook his head fiercely. “I get to choose what kind of person I get to be,” he whispered, with a special kind of reverence that betrayed how important the idea was to him. “I want to do this.”

Martin squeezed his hands tightly, and Jon squeezed back. “Which name are you going to use?” He asked softly. “You’ve been using Hastings lately.”

“I was thinking Jim Arana?” Jon hedged. 

“Then I think you got this, Jim.” Martin released him, catching the eye of the organizer who was waving at them. “You’re the expert in monologues.”

“I only monologue other people’s writing,” Jon hissed. Jim? No, Jon liked Martin to use whatever new name he had when they were out in public, but he never asked Martin to use a different first name in private. For the last two weeks he had been going exclusively by Hastings and got snippy when Martin used Montague, though, so it was hard to tell sometimes. “I wrote this! Everybody knows that when you write something it’s  _ you _ ! What if I read it and - and it’s bad? What if they don’t like it?”

Read: what if they don’t like me?

But Martin just arched an eyebrow. “Jon, half the people here are too busy making out with their date. Nobody will give you more than a second thought.”

The words made Jon exhale - thank  _ goodness _ , Martin sometimes had no idea what to say when Jon spiraled - and helped him slide out of the seat. He gave Martin’s hand a final squeezed, and leaned down to kiss him quickly on the lips. 

“On second thought,” Jon whispered, “maybe I’ll dust off an old alias.”

“Yeah?”

They seperated, and Jon smiled down at Martin, impossibly warm and fond. But something in him was settled, and something in his expression was almost proud. It was strange: to be proud to be with Martin, to be proud to be here, to be proud to be himself. “I had a distaste for it, for a little while. Too many bad memories. But I think it has a kind of ring to it, you know?”

With those obscure parting words, Jon slowly walked to the front and climbed the steps of the stage. The spotlight flickered on again, and the din of the bar slowly quieted as everyone looked at Jon as he carefully folded up his paper and stored it in his back pocket. 

Martin could only imagine how it felt: to be under the spotlight, every eye on you. To stand in front of everyone as nobody more or less than yourself, to choose to recite in your own voice the smears your heart left behind on paper. To admit to what you couldn’t say, to express what you couldn’t feel, and to admit that it was your own. To Jon - to  _ anybody  _ \- it would be terrifying. 

“Hello,” Jon said into the microphone, with the special kind of unpracticed awkwardness that Martin had always loved and that Jon had always hidden. “I’m happy to be here tonight. My name is Jonathan Andrew Sims, and tonight I’ll be reading -”

Martin leaned back in his seat, watching Jonathan Sims carefully offer the most painful and bleeding thing that he owned to the ravenous crowd. He did not look at them, and he did not make eye contact. He seemed to be in his own little world, as if he was speaking only to himself, and he heard only himself. 

Jonathan Sims spun himself a wonderful poem, light and gossamer-thin, and Martin watched his face light up in joy as he heard it for the first time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed!!
> 
> Concurrent with posting this chapter, I am also posting a very lengthy 46k oneshot about grief, hope, and self-indulgent daemon AUs. Check it out if you want to see one man spending 46k trying to punch a bird and failing.

**Author's Note:**

> This story will update every Wednesday. My tumblr is theinternationalacestation@tumblr.com. If you're interested in side stories set in this universe, they can be found under 'my writing' tag. If you enjoyed, leave a comment and kudos, please!


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